It seems like just yesterday we were arguing over who’s fault it is that we’re paying a dollar more for gas; whether we should be allowed to bet on sports; whether teachers should have to post their lesson plans online.
We can be a feisty bunch.
Then something comes along and reminds us that we live in a dangerous place — and we’re all in this together.
As I write this early the morning after, I don’t know the full extent of Andover Tornado II.
But I do know it’s bad.
It was the picture-perfect storm, a funnel of destruction unobscured by intervening weather or distance. It happened in broad daylight and we watched in awe and horror — in real time — as the twister slowly marched through Andover, leaving destruction behind it.
It was visible from rooftops in downtown Wichita and the freeways throughout the metro area. TV cameras and cell-phone livestreams on the ground showed us not just the tornado, but the incredible cloud of debris it was picking up and throwing around as it slowly passed through town.
It seemed like it would never end.
When it did, we saw the devastation it left behind.
The Dr. Jim Farha YMCA, the shining symbol of Andover civic pride, is now is in ruins, its roof torn off, its glass walls blown out. Cars that were in the parking lot on a busy Friday evening were stacked against the front of the building like Hot Wheels that had been stomped on and pushed aside in a child’s tantrum.
We saw homes without roofs, triangular trusses pointing skyward as though they’re under construction, not deconstruction. We saw homes that were completely blown apart and steel commercial buildings warped and pushed off their foundations.
We are witnesses to destruction.
But we are also witnesses to a miracle.
Despite the devastation, there have been no fatalities reported and the injury toll is light.
It is a humbling experience.
And we are humbled.
