JOPLIN, Mo. — Writing about Range Line today seems rather meaningless on this day of prayer and remembrance.

Instead, I’m going to write about the town I love.

You know I don’t like blood. I don’t like to see people hurting. But sometimes, you’ve got to man-up.

When the tornado struck Sunday, I was at my home in the south part of Joplin. I knew that I had to get to the Globe to do my job. When I reached 32nd and Main streets, I could see to the north that something terrible had happened. I turned west on 32nd Street, hoping to circle around and find a path downtown.

When I got to Maiden Lane, I looked north and saw St. John’s Regional Medical Center. That’s when I knew something much worse than terrible had happened. I could not go any further. I went to Freeman Hospital West, thinking that the injured would be taken there. I could at least file a report about what I would see. Nothing in my 58 years of living would prepare me for that — except, maybe, my faith.

At the entrance to Freeman’s ER, I was greeted by Dwight Douglas, the hospital’s general counsel, who was directing traffic. We talked briefly and I went inside. I saw about 25 or so injured people in the waiting area. I was not sure what I could do, but I knew I was going to do something. I felt like there was a reason I was supposed to be there at that moment in time.

The flood hits

I grabbed blankets from a nurse and started wrapping them around the cold and shivering people coming through the doors. At first, it was a steady stream of people. Then, the flood hit. Some walked in or limped in. Others came in on stretchers, covered in mud and blood. And then, the pickup trucks arrived. Ordinary citizens had picked up the injured and were delivering them on make-shift stretchers of battered doors and jagged pieces of plywood. I saw injuries that were too gruesome to describe. There were dangling limbs, head injuries, compound fractures and lacerations. I saw female nurses half my size picking up men twice my size.

Everything would come to a stop when an ambulance arrived and the word “Arterial!’’ was yelled. That meant someone was on the verge of bleeding to death.

My job changed from handing out blankets to making sure the aisle for the stretchers to get to the ER was clear. I cannot tell you how many times I yelled: “Make a path! Make a path!’’ It was one stretcher after another. There were so many that the hallways inside the ER were lined with them. The hospital was running out of room, wheelchairs, blankets and places for people to sit. When I stepped outside, people were lying on cots and stretchers on the sidewalk — it was like that scene from “Gone With The Wind.’’ The sky was filled with helicopters and flashes of lightning.  

I remember a young man in a wheelchair near the entrance to the ER who asked me to turn his wheelchair so he could face the wall. He had seen enough. There was a young man who aimlessly walked the aisles wrapped in a blanket. I asked him more than once to find a place to sit down. But I wasn’t getting through to him. I realized he was in shock.

‘Go girl, Go!’

There was the woman with her granddaughter who begged to get into the ER to see her injured son. They would not let her in. Telling them they would have to go to the lobby and wait was one of the hardest things I have ever done. A few minutes later, she had made her way back to within a few feet of the ER doors. I knew what she was doing, but I was not going to stop her. When the doors opened, she made her move. I thought to myself: “Go girl, go!’’ She got in. If one of my sons had been in there, I would have done exactly the same thing.

I remember wheeling a young man in a wheelchair into the lobby. I wrapped a blanket around him and told him someone would get to him soon. As I turned away, he tugged on my jacket and pulled me close to him. In a soft voice, he said, “Thank you.’’ That happened over, over and over again.

I do believe the people of Joplin are the most appreciative and patient people on the planet. There were no complaints from those with less severe injuries who were waiting to be seen. They understood the gravity of the situation. They understood they were lucky to be alive.

I remember marveling at the calm displayed by Ike Iverson, the main guy who did triage at the entrance to the ER waiting area. He told me he worked in the ER in Wichita Falls, Texas, when a tornado struck there in 1979.

“That was much worse than this,’’ he said. I simply could not conceive of how anything could be worse than what we were experiencing at that moment.

Helping strangers is one thing, but when it’s someone you know, well, it hits home.

“Wally? Wally is that you?’’

I was afraid to look and see who was calling my name. When I saw Crystal Sowersby, a church friend I have known for decades, she burst into tears and so did I. I gently hugged her and got back to it, praying that it would be the last time my name would be called.

Finally, my cellphone rang. It was my editor, Carol Stark. I could hear the relief in her voice when she heard mine. She said the newspaper was operational and that I was needed in the newsroom. I asked someone if there was a way to get to the north side of Joplin. I was told Route 249 was open.

On the way there, I thought about the town I love and how my heart was breaking for it. But I had seen the spirit of Joplin. It was torn and frayed, but know this: We are much stronger on the inside than anything on the outside.

I arrived at my desk at 10 p.m. It was time to go to work.