The trip home was fantastic. The Sufjan Stevens concert was awe inspiring, my family enjoyed getting to meet Eli, I loved being able to devour my mommy’s delicious cooking spend time with my mother, we were even enlisted to help in the concession stand for a youth event my family’s church was putting on. Mom and dad asked Eli and I if we would be willing to drive my brother Logan to Dallas for an acting class he’s attending.
“Sure!” says I. “Not a problem!” says I. “We love road trips!” says I. Everything was fine and dandy, the weather was cool and dark and rainy, and we spent several blissful hours perusing a giant bookstore with coffee in hand and inhaling delicious pizzas for lunch.
On the 2-hour drive back to my parent’s place from Dallas, in a tiny little dot on the map called Rice, we noticed that the sky looked a little bit like green cottage cheese. I checked the weather on my phone and, TADA! There is a tornado warning! 3G cut out, so I couldn’t view the radar. Like all good southern girls in crisis, I called my daddy.
“Yes ma’am.” my daddy answered.
“Uhhh, dad, there’s a tornado warning and I can’t see the radar. We don’t see any funnels, but we’re in the warning area. . .can you check the weather?”
Now, my father is a brave soul. A brave, old-school Texas soul. And any Texans reading this know what I mean. Weather is not something that ever bothers him. So when he called me back and said “Uhhhhh. . .where are you? Can you pull over? I mean. . .uh. . .yeah. Pull over at that gas station off the highway. . .now. Just. . .sit there till I call you back, okay?”, guess what we did?
Yeah. We pulled over. Only problem, the gas station was shutting everything down and turning people away because they had received reports of straight line winds of over 100 mph, and the entire storefront was shiny new, pristine glass. So, Eli, my brother Logan and I trekked back into. . .
. . .and I called my dad back.
“Soooo. . .the gas station’s shut down. But there’s a church behind it we can go to.”
There was silence, and with much trepidation in his voice my daddy asked, “Well. . .” (deep breath) “What kind of church is it?” That, ladies and gentlemen, is my favorite part of this story. But moving along. The church (Southern Baptist) ended up being locked (damned Protestants), but we DID hide out in a Post Office.