“I prayed the roof stayed on”
“The Lord told me we need to fast for three days, and it must begin on Sunday (June 30), and end on Tuesday (July 2, 2024, the day of our church’s weekly fast).” Ok, I said in response to the Elder’s statement. It was my duty to announce the weekly activities and other events coming up. This was two weeks ahead of the storm, the one we did not know would come.
Our church currently is without a host pastor, as our pastor retired just over two months ago, and a new pastor has not yet been assigned. From a human perspective, I, and perhaps others, assumed this was necessary for the church. The message from the Lord was certainly about our situation for the church, and so the prayer points were as such. By Sunday, the start of the fast, it became clear we needed to pray against destruction. It was a church service like no other, and we did not air our service live, neither on Zoom, nor Facebook. It was just a Sunday church fast and prayer. Monday the first of July, things were not looking good. Hurricane Beryl was a storm gaining grounds, gaining strength, and trouble was ahead. We were still in our three days of fasting and prayer. On Tuesday, during our fasting, we prayed, evidently against the terror, and the foreboding feeling that death was in the air. Prior to the start of the prayers on Tuesday morning, Beryl’s projection was that it would pass south of Jamaica, and not hit us directly, but by noon, the projected path of Hurricane Beryl’s eye was a perfect measurement through the centre, poised for a direct hit over the south coast. I live on the south coast. How could this be?
Nonetheless, we felt confident our prayers would be answered. The preparations were made. I had stopped by the pharmacy prior to going to church to stock surplus insulin. We did what we could at home, including freezing three 3-litre bottles of water. We knew the electricity would go at some point. The igloo could perhaps keep the insulin and other refrigerated items for three days. We were careful not to purchase surplus meats, but stick with non-perishable items. As a climate change and disaster risk management specialist, I sought to be as prepared as I could, packing an emergency bag. I wasn’t sure if it was a lack of faith or just wanting to be wise.
Tuesday night, news of Carriacou and the Grenadines froze me into the reality of Beryl. What is this storm? The beautiful, picturesque island of Carriacou was trashed. Beryl had turned downwards, going south of Jamaica. As it advanced, it became apparent it was being stirred away from hitting us directly. Silent praises and prayers as the watch began. Wednesday morning was normal, the calm before the storm.
The day dragged on, and then around 3PM, the day suddenly transformed. My Hurricane app, thankfully shared in my UWI SD group, was the most vital tool I could have at the time. Beryl’s winds came.
What hand of judgment was this. I shuddered at the howls in the wind. It felt like the dreaded uncertainties and terrors that could leap from Stephen King’s novel, ‘The Mist’. As the winds increased I was certain I heard the roof crackling. I ran to the window often to see if there was a breach anywhere. It was safe. The grills on the outside of the glass windows in certain parts of the house strengthened our confidence. But on the other side where the grills were on the inside, amazingly there was no feeling of threat. It felt safe.
The mighty outer hands of Beryl seemed like eyes bowing over, searching – and I had the sense that it was like the death angel over Egypt prior to the Exodus of Israel from the Land. Searching who was under the covering of the blood. As Beryl thundered, I couldn’t help the automated screams, followed by demands for it to, Stop! You must be there to know. It was no ordinary feeling. Prayers continued, “God please keep the roof.” There were moments of calm inside, I felt the need to keep up with my regional Caribbean Climate Network (CCN) group, sharing screen shots of where Beryl was as it passed by and occasionally braving the winds on the back veranda to take pictures of the wind strength. Beryl was no storm to take lightly. I cautiously videoed, and took pictures, dodging behind the barrel of water sitting on the veranda.
The power outage cemented the reality, as Beryl lingered, lashing, ferocious winds flaring. I counted the breadfruit as they fell on the roof before hitting the ground. On a visit during the hurling, the favorite Milly mangoes were to end their season early. It was not the usual summer. The roof stayed on, my Mulberry tree of three years bowed, and my pear tree now almost beyond a shrub size bent low. The Moringa was down, no need to worry about that, it could spring back just as easily. No flooding because the grass was intact, and the cultivated garden remained established.
Beryl barrels on, too long, too long. If only its terror could end. I was dry, the roof remained on, but I felt just as beaten as the mangoes on the ground. I kept up the texting until my battery almost drained, and I said good night as the dark carried on. Beryl, is a storm I need to end. Beryl, just go.
We woke up to the devastation, the families checked in. Many roofs on the south side are gone in my Grandma’s community. We listened to the stories of relatives’ interventions on rooftops during the storm. Lives were lost, but we were spared the worst. With all this devastation, a direct hit we know would land us beside the Grenadines, just as low. Five days without electricity, 7 days without water. It drains systems down, it wears down, but how can I be sad? We are alive, deaths were averted, mercy was shown. Our neighbours lost more, whose islands suffered loss. I am grateful, but we have a long way to go for recovery. It’s the start of the season. I pray it is the end. We don’t have the strength for another.
Tracey Edwards is a Jamaican climate organizer and community faith leader