We, the lucky ones, can sit in the comfort of our homes and witness the TV horror of a hurricane like Katrina, Rita, or Charlie. We see it sweeping into pitiful ruin the property, homes and dreams of hundreds of folks who were unlucky enough to be in its path.

     There is no way to adequately grasp the apocalyptical fury of the angry, whipping wind without our being trapped right in it. We can only imagine, empathize, sympathize and attempt to prayerfully understand. The brave camera operators and stand-up reporters give us an excellent virtual taste of it and we can shudder at what assaults us, even in our safety.

     While landing in Miami in August 1992 a few days after Hurricane Andrew had torn through south Florida, I looked down at the incredible debris it scattered over the landscape that once had been on the map called Homestead. (It has come back to life!) What an ironic name for a community that then lost 126,000 homes and 10,000 businesses and made 180,000 homeless without their homestead! Andrew was the costliest hurricane on record. But then came Charlie.

     We don’t understand why nature is so fickle and contrary at times like these. Sure, the “rain falls on the just and the unjust”, but this whirling, swirling, wicked cyclone, with its rampant storm damage, is beyond the scope of any pious platitude.

     I always think back to the typhoon-chasing flights I made in the U.S. Navy during World War II in the western Pacific. We were sent out from the small atoll island of Ulithi toward the Philippine island of Mindanao to find the track of the big typhoon that was the nemesis of all the ships at sea and the aircraft in the sky. No satellite images then – and no TV either. I learned in the Navy that the term “typhoon” is used in the Pacific areas for the same kind of tropical cyclone that is our hurricane in the Atlantic and Caribbean. It was a rough ride, to say the least. When we got into the worst of it we flew down almost to sea level to check the atmospheric pressure and the direction and speed of the wind as revealed by the white-caps on the water. By radio we sent the data back to base. We could almost see and feel the ocean spray. And it was there that I first experienced the calm contrast as we entered the typhoon’s eye. Today, the TV news tells me, there are still hurricane-hunter planes being used.

     Another time we were aboard ship (on our large seaplane tender) and became passengers on “cruise” right into turbulent waters, seeking to avoid the worst of a typhoon coming our way. Any one experiencing such a voyage can never forget the sickening sensation of having the huge vessel lifted bow-up by a giant wave and then – after a pregnant pause – come crashing down again. Navy warships were actually capsized and sunk in a typhoon during the Battle of Leyte Gulf.

     But for me, the worst was returning one night to Bruckner Bay in Okinawa from a patrol to Korea during the last weeks of WWII only to discover our entire squadron of Coronado four-engine seaplanes had evacuated the area to fly to safety in Saipan. And we got our orders to follow them there. But first we had to fill our empty fuel tanks. That proved to be tricky on the water that was already churning from the approaching typhoon. The gasoline barge was wobbling back and forth and up and down drunkenly. But the brave seamen operating the pumps and the hoses did an amazing job and soon we were ready to fly away.

     However, there was a small problem. We had to take off from the water. Normally that is a routine process of getting the huge flying boat’s nose up high enough so that it was “on the step”, as we called it. We hadn’t figured on the roiling water with its cascading and wind-whipped walls. The pounding rain and solid darkness had enveloped us and there was no moon or artificial lights to let us even see the water or what boats or ships, if any, might be in our path. We were too busy to be frightened. We headed right into the swells and poured on full power. Our plane bounced off the water repeatedly when not up to sufficient airspeed, and over and over we came splashing down again. Each time we would wonder: again? Or would we stay in the air this time?. After a major bouncing leap, we finally did remain aloft and were able to climb up and on our way. The fear we had repressed then suddenly swept over us and accompanied us almost all the way on our 1,000-mile escape from the typhoon.

     Strange how it all comes back when those frightening video images are repeated over and over on nearly every newscast. Perhaps it serves to remind us that we “live in danger all the way” (as the old hymn puts it), any day, every day. At any time we are subject to various natural disasters and dangers. We know also there are new evil forces loose in the world wanting to harm us. Just living itself takes faith. Yet, I need to do the best I can – earnestly, humbly and prayerfully -- to prepare for emergencies and to use common sense in my daily routines.

     When the wind quiets down, and when the rain ceases and the sun comes out again, the world looks more friendly. The flotsam and jetsam of recent weather chaos may remain, but it’s all tempered with a new force. A force for good rather than evil. That force has power, too. It’s called hope!