Jim crammed himself into the corner of his bunk—back hunched, eyes peeled, hands curled around the scratchy tan blanket he was issued. He watched the opening of his tent, wincing every now and then as the door flaps snapped in the wind. Each crack sounded like a gunshot. That’s how strong the wind was, and it was a constant contest between what might bring the whole thing down…the wind, or the torrents of rain.
Jim was not a stranger to frightening sounds. He and his team were stationed on the other side of Okinawa. It was 1945. While Jim sat atop a bulldozer crafting runways, harbors, and bridges, the other side of the island was steeped in combat. Jim’s days were often interrupted by the sound of explosions, separated only by some miles in between. He wasn’t sure which was worse—the hellish noise, or the misting silence afterward.
Terror arrived in a lot of forms that year. Tonight’s version was something altogether different. This was Jim’s very first typhoon.
They didn’t have typhoons back in his hometown of Aurora, Illinois. Sure, they had tornadoes every now and then, but that’s what potato cellars were for. Those storms didn’t reach wind gusts of 100 mph. They didn’t have mudslides, or tides that could rise and swallow him whole. Here he had little else but a bunk, a blanket, a tent and a team to get him through it. Being afraid out loud wasn’t an option.
He sat up most of that night, craning an ear for any sign that the storm might subside. Peace came for a moment around 2 am, then quickly brought more screams of wind in behind it. Jim must have surrendered to sleep at some point, because the morning found him slumped and crusty-eyed. He sat up soggy, noting the goosebumps dotting his arms and ignoring the damp in his hair. He searched for sounds of wind and found none. The tent flaps were still. The waves, only ripples now. A bird outside sang a cheery little song about it. Jim counted his fingers and wiggled his toes. All there, all present.
He made it through the night.
A few months later, just as multiple military branches began to convene on the island in a plan to invade Japan, Jim and his unit got some news. After months of believing a storm, a battle, or a bullet would leave him on the island for good*, Jim was told he was going home.
He told his family later: “Most shot off their guns in celebration. I would have too but I thought to myself, ‘I just cleaned the damn thing and I don’t want to do it again.’”
Jim spent every year in a posture of gratitude after that. After a war, a storm, and a bulldozer in the sea (that’s a story for another day), he had been handed his life back. He was too exhausted from the experience to be afraid anymore. So, everything since then was a wonder to behold. He got to do things he wasn’t sure were possible—like marry his soulmate, and have some kids, and watch those kids have kids, all from the comfort of his quiet midwestern town of Kansas City, Missouri.
After the typhoon, any other storm was a treat. Instead of being afraid of the pea green skies and monstrous winds that would rattle his new home, he stepped out on the porch with sparkling eyes. The louder the storm, the better.
His granddaughter, however, could not be convinced.
It was a warm and wet spring night. The girl and her brother were staying with Jim and his wife (quite possibly so the rest of their family could get some peace and quiet.) All the ingredients were present for an adventurous thunderstorm. The air stilled, hanging over the neighborhood like velvet curtains. The humidity curled hair and dripped into neck collars. Just as 8 o’clock hit, the first thunderclap boomed overhead, and Jim sighed in contentment. Here we go.
His wife called out. He looked toward her, and realized that a child was missing from the living room. It wasn’t like her to run off. The two of them called, and searched: creaking open the back screen door, bending over chairs, fanning hands underneath bed skirts. It wasn’t until Jim entered his office when he noticed two little socked feet scrunched underneath his desk.
Arthritis wouldn’t allow him to kneel, and it wouldn’t get her out anyway. So he pulled out his chair and sunk into it, prepared to wait this out.
“What are you doing under there, huh?” Jim asked. The feet yanked backward in response. “Not a fan of the storm?” He was met with obstinate silence. He imagined, correctly, that the little one shook her head and cowered deeper into the corner she’d made. Another bolt of lightning flashed across the windows.
Jim paused, thinking for a moment. He tried telling her there was nothing to be afraid of before. It was never convincing. Of course it wasn’t. This six year old had no concept of the kind of foreboding you only find in war. He looked to the left and spied the leather wristlet he used for bowling. An idea began to form.
“I’ve told you about the bowling league in heaven, right?” He asked. More silence. He pressed on. “Oh, they LOVE to bowl up in heaven. They do it all the time, but they have to move around because it makes so much noise.”
The girl inched the tiniest bit forward so she could hear better.
“Can you imagine if they bowled over Kansas City every night? What a ruckus that would be!”
A freckled nose appeared from under the desk. Finding her voice, she asked: “Who bowls up there?”
“Well, the angels do, of course. They are very professional. Some say, if you bowled a lot on earth, you get added to the team automatically.”
A soft “oooh,” escaped her mouth, and a chin appeared atop two fists as she leaned forward..
“I’m sure they have a very sophisticated team name…though, they’ve never told me what it is. And the shirts! Brilliant colors, embroidered with gold”
“Do they wear the shoes? They don’t have to rent them?” She was fully invested now. Imagine a world where you didn’t have to rent bowling shoes.
“They do! And a big crystal trophy if they win.”
Just then, lightning flashed against the windows. The girl scrambled back to her spot under the desk. A huge clap of thunder sounded, and she whimpered against the wood of the desk.
“Oh my goodness, did you hear that?” Jim raised his arms above his head in jubilation. “They got a strike!” The nose peeped out one more time. Another thunderclap sounded, and it flinched. “What a game this is! They got another one! Can you believe it?”
Success. A whole face craned outward, framed in a set of bedraggled bangs. The skepticism slowly faded, and she eyed the wristlet next to Jim.
“Do they use those?” the girl asked.
“Oh no,” Jim replied. “That’s what Angel bowling training camp is for.”
That did it. “Camp?! Like with s’mores?! Do you think they are there now?”
“I don’t know,” Jim shrugged. He waved a hand toward the window. “Go see for yourself.”
She scurried over to the window, placing finger tips on the smooth wood and searching the skies. Another flash, accompanied by a low rumble. She jumped backward, plugging her ears.
Jim bent toward her, placing his hands on hers, gently pulling them away. “I think they missed that one. Must’ve been a rookie.”
Her eyes were shining now. She searched his face, looking for a reason to be afraid. He stilled, waiting patiently as she settled on an answer. Another crack sounded, splitting the sky. Her face lit up as she ran screeching down the hallway toward her brother. “A strike! They got a strike!”
Jim sighed, rubbing his eyes while a smile escaped from the corner of his mouth. Crisis averted. She didn’t need to know about the typhoons. Not yet, anyway.
Anyway, that’s how my grandfather taught me to trade fear for wonder.
…Or tried to, at least. I still hate storms.
Footnotes:
*Sitting atop a bulldozer didn’t mean he was safe. It just meant he was an easier target.
