Incredibly Real Earthquake Fear

Stretched out on my mat, I reached to pull the stack of clothing near. Lying back against my pillow, I began to pray. “Father God, I beg You. Please, let us sleep safely through this night. Even just one night, ple-e-ease–” Sobs interrupted my bedtime pleadings. Tears rolled down my cheeks, pouring from deep wells that surely should run dry.

The after-shocks that occurred during daylight hours never affected me, but the jolted-out-of-sleep nighttime terrors tormented me. Transporting hundreds of cans of clean drinking water, large bundled packages of foodstuffs, and clothing all over the city occupied our daylight hours. The clipboard loaded with names and addresses hadn’t allowed for any giving-comfort stops along our route. Still, how could we just dump the food, water and other items the family needed and explain we had no time to hear their story? My colleague and I never said a word; we just listened, sometimes cried, and always prayed with the victims.

All too soon, the night would return, replete with anxiety and palpable fear. I rolled out my mat, completely unzipped my sleeping bag, and began to undress. As with every night I folded each item of clothing, stacking it in exactly the order needed to dress as quickly as possible. I put my shoes on top of the pile, stuffed with a clean pair of socks.

Of course, there’d be no time to actually dress inside the Sunday School building, but I figured I’d not leave anything behind if I had it ready to go. Because the items had been stacked in order, dressing could be accomplished rapidly, once outside.

The little pile spent the night right next to my head, in case I had to spring up and flee the building, which happened often. Lots of times I grabbed the stack but the shaking had stopped by the time I’d reached for the front door knob.

I never got used to the tremors. The same could be said for the adrenaline-rush that propelled me off the mat and out the door. It took a lot longer to calm down for sleep than it had taken to return to the mat and lie down again. With such exhausting days and sleep-deprived nights, my body and mind groaned with the drain of emotional and physical fatigue.

Sometime into the fourth week, I awoke refreshed and alert. I headed for the bathroom, nearly singing with relief. We’d made it. No tremors all night. No grabbing the pile of clothing and rushing for the door. No adrenaline shoving pressure up to make my head throb. Done! A night without fear, at last! I could hardly believe how good that felt.

Once back at the mat, I dressed. Before I donned my socks and shoes, I pulled my watch out of my jeans pocket. We always rose early so the lack of sunshine meant nothing. Still, I wanted to know how much time I had before my colleague should be waking up. The Sunday School classroom still resonated with the sounds of sleep.

Padding back into the bathroom, I flipped on the light switch. Midnight. “Midnight? That can’t be,” I said, thinking my watch battery was acting up again. I really did need to get that thing changed.

Taking care not to bump into anything on my way to the adjoining pastor’s office, I crossed the threshold and looked at the luminous dial on his desk clock. Midnight. Since the electric clock projected the correct time, I had to face the cold, cruel truth. The night had not ended. Most of it remained, as did the fear that it’d be a night to flee for the parking lot.

I returned to the bathroom, shut the door and sobbed my little heart out for about an hour. This time, disappointment caused more pain than fear. It would end one night but this wasn’t the night.

The above account came from my time of service on a relief team in 1989. I had been visiting the home of a friend in Sacramento when the deadly California earthquake hit. Shortly after the event, my missionary colleague and I traveled to assist in the relief efforts going on in Watsonville, near the epicenter of the quake.

Since I hadn’t been there for the initial earthquake, I asked the Lord to help me understand what the people had experienced in order to better understand what they had to deal with now.

I’d been told that fear was the number One after-effect plaguing many adults and all of the children. The first night following that prayer, I experienced that fear for myself. Not just that isolated, single night; I felt that fear for every night of the eight or nine weeks I served on that team.

Although the last two weeks had not a single tremor in our area, that didn’t matter. I still feared what the night might bring. Only when I’d left the area to continue our travel itinerary did I sleep without that fear.

The recent news reports concerning the horrible quake in Nepal have brought those Watsonville memories rushing back. I pray for the victims and their families, of course. They’re suffering such immeasurable grief.

Having lived through the trauma of assisting the victims, however, I also pray for all of those working on the relief teams in that area still active with tremors. I encourage you to remember them, too.

May God grant the aid workers the sleep to have the strength to do their work during their exhausting days. May God relieve them all of the gripping fear—victims and aid workers alike—and grant them peace.

Have you ever experienced an earthquake—either as a victim or as one of the aid workers? I’d be interested in hearing your story.