Your strength moves me. Ever since the tornadoes hit your state, I have been watching you on the evening news. I marvel at your courage. You are beautiful.
I see ambitious big-city news journalists, trying unsuccessfully to understand your downhome accents during interviews. And I watch you tell your most devastating stories while wearing an easy smile, without flinching.
I watch state officials address the public and I hear their voices crack. I see Red Cross volunteers cry. I see children with battered faces, parents wearing borrowed clothes, and young mothers without their babies.
Your communities look like confetti piles. Your land is a mud hole.
And yet you look unshaken. How? How do you do that, Kentucky?
When your sons and daughters stare into the lens, how do they find the mettle to tell the world about loved ones gone missing, tornado-related deaths, or relatives crushed beneath falling debris?
How do these interviewees manage to also tell the camera that they are “Trusting in God,” or “Taking it one day at a
You inspire me.
I’m inspired by the shirtless man wandering a demolished sidestreet, determinedly looking for his dog.
I am moved by the old fella pleading with camera crews to help find his missing wife.
I grieve the seven children who died on the same residential street.
I pray for you, Kentucky. I really do. I pray for your people, your first responders, your transplants, your prodigals, and the lineworkers visiting the Bluegrass State. I pray for your wounded heart, your ravaged lands, and for your splintered gathering places.
I see images of your young ones climbing over haystacks of rubble. I see men and women leading prayer in nuclear war zones. I weep with you. Then I offer a prayer alongside you.
And while I know that the last thing you need right now are the prayers of some average Joe Six-Pack like…