Personal Essay: The Thunder Rolls and the Lightning Strikes

“The thunder rolls, and the lightnin’ strikes. Another love grows cold on a sleepless night. As the storm blows on out of control, deep in her heart the thunder rolls.” 

– Garth Brooks

I have always been afraid of storms. Growing up, thunder would ricochet off the Rocky Mountains and shake the very foundation of our home. I distinctly recall building elaborate blanket forts with my big brother in our basement as we listened to “Thunder Rolls” by Garth Brooks in an effort to shield ourselves from harm. My fear still attacks any time the sky threatens the Earth with a light drizzle.

When I was a child, my dad would protect me from these storms. He would tell me funny stories, teach me how to make homemade bread, play my favorite games. I was a daddy’s girl and he held my heart close to his as he drove the storms out of my life. There came a point, however, when he could no longer offer protection. He grew manipulative, distant, and dishonest as he was steadily ostracized from the family.

***

Weather alert: severe lightning, flooding possible. Please stay inside.

I woke up to violent flashes illuminating my purple room, thunder shaking my old windows, and dogs barking from the neighbors’ yards. I immediately ran downstairs and shook my poor slumbering mother awake. I happily took over the bed, settled in, and listened to her humming my favorite and familiar Garth Brooks song.

The storm continued through the morning. My father was waiting on our coach to speak with me. “You are not allowed to wake you mother up anymore. We have things we have to do. If I ever catch you waking her again, there will be hell to pay.”

From then on, just as I learned to avoid lightning shooting across the sky, I learned to avoid the slumbering source of thunder taking up half my mother’s bed.

Weather alert: irreparable damage possible. Proceed with caution.

I sprinted inside, closed the door behind me, and tried to shake some of the rain water out of my hair. The weather alert had blasted across the car radio on my way home from a sleepover, warning of severe conditions. My parents were solemnly sitting at the table in silence. I guess the cold chill had followed me indoors.

My mother broke the silence: “Your father and I have decided to get a divorce.”

I left the table. I had nothing to say, and I was scared of the storm I felt brewing outside the kitchen window as I sat there in stale silence.

Soon, my father moved into the basement and we boarded up the stairs.

Weather alert: abrupt and unexpected downpours in areas. Prepare accordingly.

            We drove cautiously over the roads covered in threatening sleet toward the agreed-upon meeting place. The visitation demands had begun. I switched into my father’s run-down Camry and watched the lightning jolt across the dark sky as we made our way toward his new apartment. I was surprised when I was met at the door by an unfamiliar man, greeting me as if I was entering his home. That night I sat uncomfortably on the stiff couch as that same man curled up next to my father. 

            “I can’t wait ‘till I am old enough to never be forced here again,” I complained to my brother.

***

That year and the next several were increasingly rainy. Everyone was astonished at the number of severe storms we were experiencing, and many members of my family began buckling down for survival. There were endless days of rain, severe wind and flood warnings, lightning streaking violently across the sky. The roof even blew off our house during one of the episodes. This was the same day that I returned home to find our house half empty. My father had paid a visit, broken the window, and stolen our belongings. We were now without a roof and a microwave. My mom didn’t know how she would afford to repair the damage done.

***

Weather alert: aggressive blizzard and temperatures below freezing. Bring protection.

My father requested our attendance for Christmas when I was 14. Before dinner, he said he needed to speak to both of us privately, so we followed him down the hall into a crowded bedroom and grew nervous as he locked the door behind him. I could feel the bitter-cold air blowing through the open window as my father yelled and ridiculed our life choices. My brother was able to shield me like a billowing winter coat, but only after I had suffered a bit of frostbite.

***

Over the next several years, my father continued to follow the storms into my life, riding on the wind like an effortless dragonfly. When there wasn’t a storm large enough to carry him, he created his own. Intoxicating and interrogating me in locked rooms. Throwing icicles for my husband to deflect during our wedding. Refusing to attend momentous moments. Pleading with me from a distance to reopen the locked door.

After realizing how cold I had grown, the tides turned. He grew sorrowful and, seemingly, wanted to change. At this point, I was already covered in frostbitten toes and fingers from the endless stormy nights. After each attempt to reconnect, I grew more guarded. I had buckled down for the storm and I was not stepping outside again. My father grows old, the ice on my heart thickens, “… and the thunder rolls.”