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device labeled “security system” lies on its side at what once was a house at 802 Fifth St. in Parkersburg, Iowa.

The word “security” leaps out from between the stuffed animals, the beer cans, the grill on its side, the toppled storm doors and the wall they were attached to.

It seems to mock the devastation spanning as far as the eye can see, begging the question: What is security when a mile-long tornado with 205-mph winds rips through, taking seven lives?

What good is a burglar alarm when there’s no longer a house to secure, when any intact contents lie out for anyone to take?

This is the irony that smacks you, moving among the collapsed structures and downed trees, observing the fluttering papers marked, “Informed consent for the orthodontic patient,” and “The complete handbook of health tips,” and the medicine cabinet still connected to an interior bathroom wall – all that’s left standing of a particular home.

What good is the orthodontic patient’s informed consent under the weight of a collapsed rooftop? Which health tips could protect a person slammed against a wall?

And which medicines could ease the pain of losing your history?

So it goes, this eerie exposure into the details of people’s lives, a reminder that despite the best efforts security sometimes eludes us.

To differing degrees, such scenes of loss are being replayed around the country, and world in the wake of severe storms, hurricanes, earthquakes and tornadoes.

Each of Parkersburg’s five fatalities reportedly lived in a solid house.

There were warnings before the storm hit, which most people seem to have heeded.

Yet the May 25 tornado still obliterated the southern half of the town of 1,900 and parts of others, destroying at least 350 homes.

Where do you begin when the scale of loss is so enormous?

Debbie Phillips searched for one family photo.

Her dad, 84-year-old Virgil Lindaman, escaped, but the remnants of his house at 801 Fourth St. were blown two addresses down.

Phillips searched the remnants for a picture of her late grandmother, but first had to lift and move the living room wall.

Phillips now lives in Colorado, but was born and raised in Parkersburg, like her dad. Asked how he was doing, she shook her head and fought back tears.

“I don’t even know how to describe it,” she said. “He’s pulling up his bootstraps and looking for certain memories.”

As she spoke, Ken Zimmerman with Red Cross disaster services approached to offer on-the-spot mental health counseling. The two of them moved aside to talk.

By 1 p.m. Zimmerman had counseled 35 to 40 people that way. He said many were still in denial, trying to figure out what to do first, and how to pay for things without checkbooks, driver’s licenses or wallets.

For now he’s directing them to resources. The real emotional fallout will be dealt with later: “You don’t want to open a wound you can’t put back together.”

So, how do you build protection against something like this? Of course, you make sure your home is solid, and has adequate insurance, and keep an inventory of your belongings.

But the real insurance policy, as residents of Parkersburg are teaching, is intangible. You build community, and teach proper values to your children.

You didn’t see anyone looting out there. You saw people reaching out to each other.

You heard how a 19-year-old Pizza Ranch manager and other employees risked their own lives to shelter customers before the storm broke.

You read how neighbors pulled 74-year-old Ray Meyocks from the rubble of his home before he died of heart failure, giving his daughters comfort that at least he died surrounded by care.

You heard of high school football players digging graves and rounding up stray horses, and so many other stories of compassion and care.

So maybe the best security is not in a security system, but in knowing that possessions come and go, but connections must be nurtured, and you secure your most cherished memories in your heart.