August 7, 2025 – Port Vila, Vanuatu
My kids and I were on the sectional sofa watching Despicable Me.
“Stop moving the couch,” Silas, my oldest, told August, the second-born (not sure why I’m including their birth order). August said he wasn’t shaking it. I told him to turn off the TV. Lorentz (#3) and Magnus (#4) sensed something was wrong and jumped into my lap.
Suddenly, I recognized the same trembling I’d felt in Ecuador as a 19-year-old. You feel it in your feet. The tremor. It’s almost something you can dismiss—but deep down, you know it was something.
I called up to Heidi (she was upstairs) and asked if she felt anything. “No,” she said, “but my toothbrush fell off the sink. I thought I’d bumped it.” She Googled our location. Sure enough: 5.09 earthquake.
I only bring it up because it made me realize how little I know about earthquakes. Why would I? I’ve spent most of my adult life in Minnesota, Colorado, and Tennessee. But that lack of knowledge is exactly what I don’t like about traveling. I know the discomfort and uncertainty are good for me—but gall darn it, there’s a biological component that kicks in. How am I supposed to survive—and keep my offspring alive for generations to come—if I don’t even know which part of the house is safest during an earthquake?
Tornado? No problem. Basement, interior wall. No basement? Center room or hallway.
But my first thought last night was: Which walls are load-bearing? I’m not sure why that came to mind—or whether it’s even important.
I think I’m getting around now to the point I’m trying to make, mostly to myself: that an earthquake every twenty-ish years does the body and soul some good. Makes you fall asleep a little more grateful (and terrified). The amount you can control in life is pretty limited when it comes to nature and acts of God.
Control what you can, pray, and hang on for dear life.
Love,
Aaron