The first gust of wind sent us shivering to our beds at around 4am. In truth, it wasn’t the first time we’d seen the ceilings raised by the wind, but more than ever they were shaken, and the rain came down in torrents. Shortly after 7 a.m., the storm seemed to subside, but during those few minutes of calm, the wind had only changed direction, only to blow more furiously. It was impossible to stand outside, and the furious wind made a play of the kurumas (Japanese cars).

Around 8 a.m. I heard a tremendous cracking sound from the chapel side, and anguished voices calling out to me. I ran over and saw that a whole section of the roof had been shaken off and thrown into the courtyard. All five of us leapt to the foot of the altar, loudly imploring the help of the One who holds lightning in his hands and to whom the winds obey. But the hour of trial had come, and the good Lord seemed to turn a deaf ear to our groans. The winds raged with more fury than ever, and the roof slates, torn off one by one, whirled through the air, sometimes smashing into the window panes and shattering them into a thousand pieces. My companions urged me to take the holy ciborium to a place where it would be safe, but I just stood there, paralyzed by my unworthiness. It was impossible to call the Father of the Mission, as the telephone no longer worked […].

(The Precursor, Jan-Feb 1930, p.414-417)