Jan. 17, 1994

Five years ago this morning, the trembling Earth took something from each of us.

Treasured possessions.

Homes.

Livelihoods.

Security.

Certainty.

Faith.

Memories.

A loved one.

Five years ago this morning, the Northridge earthquake jolted us out of bed at 31 minutes after 4 a.m. Still groggy in the chilly dark, we tallied all that we had lost. In the end, the magnitude 6.7 quake was the costliest natural disaster in American history with as much as $42 billion in damage. Federal and state disaster aid poured in. So did insurance adjusters and contractors--not all with honorable intent. The San Fernando Valley is, in many ways, better than it was before Jan. 17, 1994. On that morning, though, it seemed as if everything just stopped in a single violent moment.

And everything we had worked for was lost.

Photo albums.

Television sets.

Aquariums full of fish.

Wedding pictures.

A favorite pair of shoes.

Grandma’s armoire.

Everything we had ever owned.

And, suddenly, as we huddled with friends or families, none of it mattered.

Five years ago this morning, we witnessed nature’s humbling power with all our senses.

To some, it sounded like a roar.

Or a train.

Or a geologic groan.

Or a sloppily loaded washing machine on the spin cycle.

Outside we saw the stars and understood how dark night really is without the glow of street lights.

And then there was the silence.

In those moments, we understood raw fear.

We prayed.

We embraced.

We calculated magnitude in our heads.

We scrambled from bed to doorway.

Only to be flung back to bed.

Glass shattered.

Ceilings gave.

Neighbors died.

After the shaking, the questions.

Was it “The Big One?”

What will we do?

Is everyone OK?

Why us?

Why them?

What a motley bunch we must have appeared.

In mismatched sneakers.

In high heels.

In pajamas.

In sequined gowns.

In nothing at all.

Even before dawn broke, the first rays of hope began to shine.

Flashlights pierced the darkness.

Neighbors we had never met asked if our kids were safe.

The guy who got power before anyone else hooked the block up with extension cords.

Someone with a cellular phone called family back East, or up North, or wherever, just to let them know we were all alive.

And as the day grew sunny and warm, the news filtered out. The extent of the damage. The number of people killed, injured, homeless. Grim tallies all. The day ended with more aftershocks, which lingered for weeks. Piles of debris grew at curbside. Hammer falls echoed through neighborhoods. The grocery store reopened. Then the mall. The freeway got fixed. Finally, new furniture started arriving to fill freshly painted living rooms.

Seismic sputters no longer tighten our throats.

Now, five years out, life for most of us is where it was that morning. Maybe even a little better, if outward appearances are to be believed. The quake took something from all of us. But it gave us something. Despite a million small experiences, the quake gave us a single common experience. For a moment, a day, a week we understood how small and fragile we really are. As we extended our hands to our neighbors and peered across toppled fences, we grew bigger and stronger. We became a community.