Our non-profit organization had just received a large donation of clothing. As three of us walked home for dinner, we saw a woman begging by the bridge. She was old and had no legs. She shivered in her thin sari(纱巾), which offered little protection from the cold wind. Her hunger forced her to beg. My friends and I looked at each other: here was a perfect opportunity, but first it was necessary to do a little bit of research.

We went up to the woman to hear her story. She spoke very little due to her poor health and fear, but we learned enough. She lived alone in her small home. She had no one to look after her and ate whatever people gave her. The desire to help her grew stronger. After speaking to her, we headed back to get something to keep her warm. Finding the perfect sweater, we set out again to see the woman. This time, the fear was replaced by distrust as we presented her with the sweater.

“Are you robbers?” she asked. “You came here before and are back so suddenly with clothes.” I was surprised by her principles. Even in her state, she did not want to wear anything that was stolen and gained through ill means.

“No, we are out doing service work.” Her shoulders relaxed a bit. I then helped her put the sweater on and said, “Please don’t sell the sweater.” “I swear, I won’t,” she said.

A week later, I was out walking with my mother to get some food when I saw the woman again. This time the picture was a little different. She was still begging, but with the gray sweater wrapped around her body and a smile on her face when she saw us. I guarantee that the smile on my face was bigger.

My grandfather died more than twenty-five years ago. I was fifteen then. He was kind, strong, fair, and very funny. When I was a young musician, he was my biggest fan. I played my violin for him when he visited, and he loved everything, but each time he had one request. “Could you play Amazing Grace?” he asked, full of hope and with a twinkle in his eye, because he knew my answer was always, “I don’t know that one!” We went through this routine at every major holiday, and I always figured I’d have time to learn it for him later.

About the time I entered high school and started guitar, Grandpa got cancer. The last time I saw him alive was Thanksgiving weekend in 1985. My mom warned us that Grandpa didn’t look the same anymore and that we should prepare ourselves. For a moment I didn’t recognize him. He looked so small among all the white sheets. We had all gathered in Ohio for the holiday, and I’m sure we all knew we were there to say good-bye. I can see now that Grandpa held on long enough to see us each one more time. I remember how we ate in the dining room and laughed and talked while Grandpa rested in his hospital bed. I wonder if it was sad for him to be alone with our voices and laughter. Knowing Grandpa, he was probably content.

The next morning, I found my moment alone with him. I pulled out my guitar, tuned to his appreciative gaze, and finally played for him Amazing Grace. I had worked on it for weeks, knowing it never mattered whether I actually played it well and choosing not to believe as I played that it was my last concert for my biggest fan. The cancer had stolen his smile, but I saw joy in his eyes. He held my hand afterward, and I knew I had done something important.

I argued with people all through college about my music major. I was told by strangers that music wouldn’t make me any money and it wasn’t useful like being a doctor. But I know first-hand that with music I was able to give my grandpa something at a point when no one else could.

On the day the tornado(龙卷风) hit, there was no sign fierce weather was on its way— the sky was blue and the sun had been out. The first warning my husband, Jimmy, 67, and I, 65, got came around 9 p.m., from some text on the TV Jimmy was watching. He ran upstairs to find me in our third-floor bedroom, and we changed the channel from the national television to our local Pensacola, Florida, station.

Soon the tornado was on top of us. It was the loudest thing I have ever heard. The bones of the house shook, and the power went out. And the wind began to roar(咆哮) through the house, most likely through blown-out windows and the door to our garage. Everything was moving. And the back wall of the house came off and flew into the darkness outside. We had three flights of steps to get to the storeroom down there, the relative safety of the first floor.

I didn’t know how or if we would make it down the steps. It felt as if there were no floor underneath me as the wind lifted me off my feet. As we finally reached the last flight of steps, our front door blew out. Suddenly, a three-foot-long tree branch flew over our heads, missing us by inches.

By the time I reached the storeroom, the tornado had been over us for about a minute. Jimmy pushed me down to the storeroom floor, but he couldn’t get inside himself because of the wind. I held Jimmy’s arm as the tornado blew the door open. My knees were full of glass, but I felt no pain. If I had let go, Jimmy would have flown right out the back of the house.

All of a sudden, Jimmy lifted off his feet. I thought he was gone. And then everything stopped. He landed on his feet. In those first quiet moments, I couldn’t believe it was over. Our neighbor says the storm lasted four minutes. In that time, four of the twelve town houses in our unit were completely destroyed. Amazingly, none of us were seriously injured.