In the Eye of Disaster, the Future

A regular feature of the Rolling Desk is “Ask and Give”—stories about the ways people, often strangers or acquaintances, show up for each other, often in times of disaster. Today’s story comes from a guest poster, an author whose life path was, in many ways, formed by just such an experience.

The summer before his senior year of college,

Todd Weir

quit his job as a radio reporter to join a traveling ministry of mimes. Yes, mimes. Now a coach, pastor, and writer, Todd publishes Cultivating Soul, where he champions transformation, conversation, curiosity, and the quest in questioning. He and his congregation strive to outwardly demonstrate their sincerity when they say all are welcome, for example, holding an annual celebration affirming LGBTQ+ people.

Writing this introduction reminded me of something about myself I feel a little hesitant to admit. I have a bias against religion. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I pull back from words like sermon and ministry. I think that’s a thing happening more and more often in many parts of the world: Oh, you’re … fill in the blank. You believe … fill in the blank. You’re not one of my people then. Todd’s essay/sermon “Talking with the Opposition” highlights the power of conversation—how one he had when he was “one of those people” (i.e., someone a particular group might see no use in talking to) was pivotal for him. In “The Dividing Wall of Hostility,” he talks about what it can mean to dismantle the invisible walls people build and/or live behind.

Here’s Todd.

In the Eye of Disaster, a Glimpse into the Future

Disasters strip away the mundane and reveal life’s raw vulnerability and courage. I cringe whenever I see news coverage of disasters. Homes smashed to splinters, a broken doll in the mud, or a Honda turned into a rowboat churning in the floods down the street, and the cameras move on. We seldom know the small human stories of resilience beyond tragedy and devastation. So, I will tell the story of my town.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

I grew up knowing to watch the sky and discern its changes. My father was a pilot in a family of farmers, so the weather was serious business. Flat, dry land perfect for forming funnel clouds gave Central Iowa its nickname—“tornado alley.” We all learned to head to the basement, bathroom tub, or nearest ditch if we saw a funnel twisting down to the earth.

I was 12 years old, waiting for a ride home from baseball practice when clouds circled around me, no longer going west to east. The first tight funnel appeared on the horizon on the drive home. By the time my family and I had finished dashing around the farm, securing doors, and bracing for what was coming, six more funnels surrounded us. In the distance, warning sirens that had finally gotten the message wailed. 

We waited. The air was not just still; it was dead. It was as if a vacuum had sucked all the smells, moisture, and dust particles away. Even the oxygen levels felt thin, like being on a mountaintop. I stood in the yard. Above me, a staggering, malevolent beauty stretched to every horizon of the flat Iowa earth.

The next funnel cloud was a different magnitude. I would later learn the “Jordan tornado” was an F5, the highest category, measuring a mile wide at the base with winds up to 200 miles per hour. It contained two funnel clouds joined together, each rotating in a different direction.

I remained in the yard despite my mother’s urgent calls from the basement, compelled to bear witness. Like one of the plagues from Moses and the Ten Commandments, the twister descended. When it touched down about a mile away, near the little town of Jordan—home to 20 houses, a school, a church, and several bars—it threw dirt, trees, telephone poles, cows, and tractors hundreds of feet into the air. A giant rototiller, it plowed the earth, moving toward the tallest thing in the county, the grain elevator, about the size of a ten-story building. 

The tornado engulfed the elevator, leaving behind an empty horizon. I would later see, where the building had once stood, a fence post with husks of straw driven into it like nails. For ten minutes, an eternity, it moved toward our home. I prayed for friends in its path.

Photo by Greg Johnson on Unsplash

Then, just as suddenly as it had formed, the tornado lifted back into the sky and disappeared. 

Once the immediate danger had passed, we emerged from our shelter, dazed but driven by a sense of urgency. We knew our neighbors would need help. The scene that greeted us was surreal. The destruction followed no rational or moral pattern. An entire house was destroyed except one corner. Undisturbed on the wall sat the only thing left, a fragile teacup collection. Kindhearted, hardworking people lost their homes, and selfish, arrogant, nasty people were spared.

Why did this happen? Surely, we were not greater sinners than people in the next county. It happened because a warm and cold air mass came together over our flat fields and caused the most enormous recorded funnel cloud in history. We were just in the way.

This destructive tornado also created the most powerful experience of what a community can be. Minutes after the tornado lifted, hundreds of us rushed to the disaster area around Jordan. When we arrived at the home of people we knew, church members were already there with staple guns and plastic covering the shattered windows from the wind and the rain. Some cleaned up the broken dishes and set pies and casseroles on the counter to feed everyone. Who were these people who seemed to have pies, plastic, and staple guns ready for just a moment like this?

Since I was young and fast, I joined a group to rescue a terrified herd of cattle stampeding through the fields. By the time we finished, I had mud up to my knees and was utterly exhausted yet exhilarated. Our youth group spent a week picking up debris in the fields for replanting. It was like an army had been called to duty on a moment’s notice and arrived out of thin air.

I later came across Rebecca Solnit’s A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities That Arise in Disaster. Solnit writes about five disasters in depth, among them the 1906 earthquake in San Francisco, the Mexico City earthquake of 1985, and Hurricane Katrina. She was fascinated by the stories of compassion, bravery, and community action that were far more powerful than reports of looting or selfishness. Solnit says, “Our response to disaster gives us nothing less than a glimpse of who else we ourselves may be and what else our society could become.”

Todd Weir

Witnessing the community’s resilience in the face of disaster profoundly influenced my path to ordained ministry. It taught me that true leadership involves not just preaching doctrine but also embodying compassion and readiness to bear the burdens of grief, loss, and tragedy. I wanted to build a staple-gun-ready community committed to dignity, peace, and compassion. So, when people ask why disasters happen or where God is in this, we would already be getting the plastic on the windows and warming casseroles.

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Want more of Todd?

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Last month, I celebrated a month on Substack with a 30 percent discount on annual subscriptions (making them less than $3/mo). A number of you took me up on the offer—thank you!—and I swooned. So, I'm extending the discount for a while longer. Paid subscriptions are my bread and butter, especially in what is for me a moment of transition of both body and career. I thank you dearly if you’re able to upgrade to one. All subscribers are my heart. Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting. If you’re a Substack writer and you love this work, please recommend the Rolling Desk. And if you loved this post, please restack or share it.

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PS. I first connected with Todd on a chat thread hosted by

Sarah Fay

, where she encouraged us to ask each other to write on the topic we wanted to see published. Todd asked for pieces on what we believed about God when we were younger that has since changed. I took on the assignment and wrote “Are You There God? It’s Me … You.” I really like this idea of being each other’s assigning editors. What a fantastic way for writers to connect. Thanks, Sarah! Feel free to drop a topic you’d love to see a piece written on. Some fantastic writers are rolling with us here. Maybe someone will take you up on it. Who knows what might grow from there?

PSS. Do you have a story for the Ask and Give column? A time when someone, perhaps a total stranger, had your back or when you helped out someone in need? Hit me up here if you want your work to be included in the collection.