Yesterday a rare 5.8 earthquake shook the East Coast at 1:51 p.m. and closed down our nation's capital in Washington, D.C. I was sitting on the couch in our 12th floor apartment, taking a lunch break from my quilting when I heard the rumble and felt the building shake. At first, I wondered if an airplane had crashed into the building. After all, Reagan National Airport is only a short distance from our home.
But then our television, one of the few possessions to make the cut and win a spot in our minivan's cross-country trek over Memorial Day, began to shimmy on its stand, rocking back and forth. This must be an earthquake, I thought, as an old Carole King song began to play through my mind, "I Feel the Earth...Move...Under My Feet."
I scrambled to stand in the doorway of our bathroom while my mental soundtrack switched to another tune, "The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock" that I learned as a child. (If you are unfamiliar with this song, view this precocious YouTube performance.) Watching the drawers of my rented sewing desk roll out under the impact of the quake's waves, I calmly wondered if our apartment building would soon go "splat!"
Oddly enough, I had read the 13th chapter of Mark in my devotion time yesterday morning. In that chapter, the disciples asked Jesus what the end times would be like. While I had puzzled over Jesus's response to them, one thought that struck me was how often Jesus told them not to be alarmed but instead to be alert and keep watch. I recalled my morning prayer, "God, I don't have any idea when You will choose to end the world, but help me to be ready, whatever comes."
Perhaps that meditation prompted me for once the initial tremor ended, I knew I had to evacuate the apartment before any more shock waves hit. I grabbed my purse and a tote bag, dumping into it our prescription medicines, Tim's eyeglasses, our checkbook as well as the batteries and recharging station for my cochlear implant. Then, I knocked on neighbors' doors to make sure our wing was empty as I headed for the stairs.
Once I reached the ground, I crossed the street and grabbed a bench in Highlands Park, our neighborhood's park. I tried to text Tim, but when I couldn't reach him, I prayed that God would keep him safe.
There, I sat, chatting with other evacuees, and staring at the foundation of our apartment building across the way, wondering how firm its foundation was. That thought shuffled a different song onto my mental soundtrack, an old hymn entitled "How Firm a Foundation." The only verses I could recall were these:
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word! What more can He say than to you He hath said, You, who unto Jesus for refuge have fled?
Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed, For I am thy God and will still give thee aid; I’ll strengthen and help thee, and cause thee to stand Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand."
Later, I learned that Tim had been in the gym at FBI Headquarters, working out on the stationary bike when the announcement was made to evacuate that building. He never even felt the tremor! With his cell phone securely stashed in a locker, Tim, clad in his T-shirt and gym shorts, joined the rest of his colleagues outside on the street.
After an hour had passed, authorities allowed FBI employees back into the building to grab their belongings (in Tim's case, his clothes!) and sent them home for the rest of the day. His ride home on the Metro was packed with people and slow as the engineers kept the train's speed under 15 miles per hour so they could check to see if the quake had damaged the tracks.
When I saw Tim walk around the corner from the local Metro stop, a final hymn played on my mental soundtrack:
"Praise Him! Praise Him! Tell of His excellent greatness. Praise Him! Praise Him! Ever in joyful song!"
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