I went on an invigorating run through my “narnia” forest after the remains of Wilma left us with a brisk wind and cool temperatures. I had gotten back from our Louisiana trip at 4am that morning and slept most of the day, it was good to get some air. Our team of 15, two 12-passenger vans titled “cherry-bomb” and “silver bullet”, and one large truck we filled with donations for hurricane victims made there way to Louisiana for a long weekend.
We unloaded our truck supplies in a small town on the Mississippi/Louisiana border which had been devastated by Katrina. I like millions have watched the news, I have seen the pictures, but I can not describe walking down the streets of neighborhoods which have been demolished, no structure left standing, debris strewn through the trees. Peoples lives, their memories, their treasures, now laid for miles open for the public to stroll through like a garage sale offering you a trash bag to fill for $1.
Our team worked with a small Catholic church, we went from house to house tearing down sheetrock, pulling out floors, removing flooded appliances, etc. I deemed the two breathing masks with orange peels between them our best invention. Through mold, maggots, and mud we searched to offer life to the remains of these massacred homes.
My most heartbreaking discovery was the remains of my home. My heart raced as I drove down the familiar roads, homes I had seen so often now destroyed, and I still found myself hoping ours might have made it. Maybe our home would be salvageable, perhaps my fears would not be true. Turning the corner to our home, I moved into a new genre, I was no longer the relief worker, now I was the victim. The frame of the house was torn, leaving the kitchen and living room exposed. I wept. As if I were attending a funeral, I cried, as if someone had died. I felt silly no one had died, yet hundreds had died, hundreds of memories.
I returned the next day to the house with a small team, we searched through the remains with my aunt and I, yelling “treasure!” every time we found something of worth. I was digging with a shovel through the insulation, broken furniture, and glass in one room, when I found what seemed to be a book, I dug through the mud and pulled out a photo album. The first page I wiped off was a picture of me and my sister as young teenagers with goofy hats on. Again, the tears came, “treasure!” I yelled in through the sobs, “treasure!”.
At dusk, we sat in the driveway, looking through our treasures, we had a few pieces of dishes from my great grandmother, a painting from my aunt, pictures I had found, a bowl my uncle had made, an newspaper article of grandpa’s eulogy and 6 notes from loved ones. Maybe I can explain a little more why it felt like a funeral, no one died, but the physical, tangible memories of many who I have loved where broken, lost, or destroyed. My grandma’s crochete blankets are gone, thousands of our pictures destroyed, multiple pieces of our artwork lost.
I turned on a song by MercyMe called “Homesick” as I ran today, looking at the sun shine through the remains of the now passed hurricane. The sunshine felt so nice after all the rain, as did my treasure, they felt like redemption from so much destruction of the storm. The team I was on loved me well, they walked with me as I dug through my saddest losses of my family’s memories.
How is it that God brings redemption from such tragedy? From such devastation? How is it my heart is still tender towards You, Father? Natural disaster plague us universally in recent months but still I find the tenderness of the Lord here in the debris amidst the mud and the remains. There in the lowest places I find hope. God is good.
