April 11, 2026, will mark 15 years since theF5 tornado that forever changed Pleasant Grove, a small but strong community in Alabama. Fifteen years sounds like a long time — until you realize grief, memories, and fear don’t really follow a calendar.

Shortly after the tornado struck, I wrote about what we experienced. Back then, everything was raw. The sights, the sounds, the loss — it all felt like it was happening in slow motion. Today, the emotions are different, but they are still there. Some wounds don’t close completely. They just learn how to live beside you.

That day, 13 people in our community lost their lives. Thirteen families had their worlds shattered. Homes were gone. Landmarks were gone. In many ways, a sense of security was gone, too. When people talk about storms, they often talk about property damage and wind speeds. But storms leave something else behind — memories you never asked for.

Even now, when the weather forecast mentions a tornado watch, my body notices before my mind does. The tension creeps in. The sky looks different. The air feels heavier. And if I’m being honest, I still have nightmares sometimes. The kind where you wake up and have to remind yourself that the walls are still standing and the roof is still overhead.

Our city is still rebuilding — not just buildings, but hearts. New homes have gone up. Businesses have reopened. New families have moved in. But there are empty places that will never be filled the same way again. And yet, if there’s one thing I’ve seen over the last 15 years, it’s resilience. Neighbors helping neighbors. Churches opening doors. Strangers becoming family overnight.

Anniversaries like this are strange. They hurt, but they also remind us of how far we’ve come. They remind us to say names out loud. To remember stories. To check on each other when the sky turns gray. And to never take an ordinary, boring, peaceful day for granted.

Fifteen years later, we remember.
We honor.
And we keep rebuilding — together.

The Day the Sky Took Aim at Home

Our little community was hit by an EF-4 tornado, and as most of you know, it destroyed much of our great city. Thirteen people lost their lives a few weeks ago. That same day, 64 tornadoes were recorded across Alabama, with 250 lives lost statewide. Numbers like that are hard to wrap your mind around… until one of those storms is headed straight for your front door.

That morning, my son and I woke up to news reports of a tornado hitting Pell City, a town east of us. It caused major damage, including to my sister-in-law’s house. It was shocking, but at the time it still felt like “someone else’s tragedy.” We were getting ready to leave with the high school band for a trip to Orlando, Florida. We kissed my wife and our young twin daughters goodbye and headed out, thinking about theme parks and music competitions.

I had no idea that just hours later, I would be terrified. I had just said goodbye to them for the last time.

We were on the bus near Tallahassee, Florida, when messages started coming in. An EF-5 tornado had hit Tuscaloosa and was moving toward Pleasant Grove — my hometown. Everyone on the bus started watching the live coverage as the radar showed the storm was inching closer to home.

I called my wife and told her to take cover. The radar program on my computer showed the path heading dead center toward our house. When I hung up the phone, I didn’t know if I would ever hear her voice again.

On the bus, the TV reports started rolling in. Then the phone calls and messages. Friends. Neighbors. Homes destroyed. Fires. Injuries. Deaths. It felt like the world was collapsing in real time — and I couldn’t reach my wife.

I tried her cell. The house phone. The neighbors. Nothing. Not even a ring. Just busy signals everywhere.

I couldn’t text her either. She never wanted to pay extra for texting. I’ll be honest… in that moment, I was mad about that. Funny the things your brain latches onto when you’re scared to death.

After about fifteen minutes, that sinking feeling set in — the one that tells you life might never be the same again.

All around me, parents were crying. People were getting news about loved ones being hurt… or worse. The lady behind me saw I was coming apart and tried to calm me down. I went and found my son. He had been trying to call his mom, too. I could tell he’d been crying. We just held onto each other for a few minutes.

Other parents tried calling our numbers. Same result.

Then finally… after what felt like a lifetime… I got a ring.

I remember thinking: Just because it rings doesn’t mean she’s alive.

Then I heard the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

My wife’s voice.

The tornado missed our house by about half a mile. She had stepped outside afterward and didn’t see much damage. A few limbs down. Insulation is scattered across the yard. She wouldn’t realize until the next day just how close we had come to losing everything.

We were — and still are — truly blessed.

The buses stopped at the next rest area. Parents and band leaders met to figure out what to do. Some parents chose to head home. The decision was made to continue to Orlando and let parents make their own travel arrangements if they needed to return.

The kids all stayed. Some didn’t like it at the time, but they needed to stay out of the way of the emergency response and cleanup. Looking back, I think they understood.

We stayed in Orlando until Sunday. The ride home was quiet. Reality had set in. We were about to see firsthand what had happened to our homes, our friends, and our community.

Even today, our city is still rebuilding. Many families left and never came back. Our band went from nearly 100 students to 20 in less than a year. The high school felt it too. We’re slowly rebuilding — not just buildings, but people, memories, and hope.

It’s going to take time.

But we’re still here.

And that means everything.