This time four years ago, I was sitting comfortably in my home watching the news regarding Hurricane Katrina. I knew my heart hurt for these people, but I had no idea how drastically my own life would be impacted by one of the nations most devastating acts of nature, and subsequently, devastating neglect of our Homeland Security.
Don't get me wrong - this girl is a red blooded, combat wearing, troop defending American. But I saw things that I NEVER want to see perpetrated again in this country, by my fellow country men.
I will never get over the shock of seeing media footage of people who were caught in trees, trapped in 100+ degree attics, and children crying out for water. If the media was able to get in, why couldn't help get in? Photo's of ARC vehicles and water trucks and food source transportation can be seen. . .lined up along I 10 for miles and miles, nearly 70 miles outside of New Orleans. It broke my heart.
I began to work with the ARC in Augusta in the days following Katrina. My job specifically was to match known deaths to service members who were stationed elsewhere, and begin the contact process. We were not allowed to notify in the event of "missing." I must have fielded 1000 calls the first week from soldiers, sailors, and Marines who were looking for "Mama." One young Marine stationed in Japan broke down telling me, "You don't understand! She lived in the lower 9th and she was alone. There's no one else I can call." I hadn't the heart to tell him there wasn't much of the lower 9th left, and we weren't getting any "body" confirmations with those addresses.
About a year later I found myself in New Orleans with Mercy Response (Vineyard) and other people from all over the country. Driving into the city, we passed through several parishes. I couldn't begin to keep track of the FEMA cans (trailers) we saw, or the homes so obviously abandoned. Driving into the city, you could the valiant attempt made by some to "get on with life." We, the volunteers, heroes still in our minds, slept in a giant, patched together tent and showered in retro fitted trailers. We ate our meals in an air conditioned church, and made plans to "see the city" on our "day off." I'll never the humbling process God brought me through in those five days, or how He had imminent plans to return me to that place within a year.
The following year I was again in New Orleans - this time with a different group of people. I met a young man from NY who'd come out the year prior, and was so touched and so moved by his experiences he sold his business and lived permanently in a damp tent, out of a suitcase, and swung a hammer day in and day out. Then there was Lori, from Cincinnati, with whom I connected immediately. We toured the lower 9th one morning - silence often creeping in between us as we looked at destruction over a year away from the event itself. Standing in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, and looking up at the twisted and bent sign, we could both see clearly the wall of water that had ripped through the town center. There simply were no words to express what we were both seeing, and the little horror we could imagine was surely NOTHING compared to what the residents of this area must have experienced.
And yet, there was hope. I saw it on the face of the mailman we spent a half hour talking with and hearing his story of survival. It came across in the words of the old man who tended to the pinched arm and bruise I received when opening a table at the Dinner Mercy Response hosted every week. Turns out he was a doctor in St. Bernard parish - that is, until his entire practice along with his home was destroyed. Today, he lives in a FEMA-can and has a hot meal once a week at said dinner. I experienced it with the Sheiksnieders whose house we demo'ed the year prior, and who were now using the empty house to feed their neighbors daily. They too lived in a can, but had acquired long tables and would gather their community DAILY to break bread together, regardless of how meager or how unsubstansial. HOPE was substansial, and that's what mattered.
A young man I knew a long time ago is an amazing musician, and he wrote a song called, "There You Are" and it just encompasses my personal New Orleans experience.
There You are - holding my hand.
There You are - helping me stand.
When the night was closing in; thought I wouldn't see the light again
There You are
I went to New Orleans to be a hero - hahahahahahaaa. What I found was NOT a people who needed saving, but a people who offered their own version of salvation to those of us so presumptuous to think we were "somebody." What I learned was that I in myself am NO ONE. . .absolutely nobody. My ability to demo, to pray, to somehow "reach" these people was not so gently pushed away as God got real with me, the message coming across so clearly, "You cannot save these people darlin. I've already done that. Now if you want to help, then LISTEN and follow and be My hands, be My feet, be My ears."
Let us never forget the tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina, or the travesty of our failed response as a country.
Don't get me wrong - this girl is a red blooded, combat wearing, troop defending American. But I saw things that I NEVER want to see perpetrated again in this country, by my fellow country men.
I will never get over the shock of seeing media footage of people who were caught in trees, trapped in 100+ degree attics, and children crying out for water. If the media was able to get in, why couldn't help get in? Photo's of ARC vehicles and water trucks and food source transportation can be seen. . .lined up along I 10 for miles and miles, nearly 70 miles outside of New Orleans. It broke my heart.
I began to work with the ARC in Augusta in the days following Katrina. My job specifically was to match known deaths to service members who were stationed elsewhere, and begin the contact process. We were not allowed to notify in the event of "missing." I must have fielded 1000 calls the first week from soldiers, sailors, and Marines who were looking for "Mama." One young Marine stationed in Japan broke down telling me, "You don't understand! She lived in the lower 9th and she was alone. There's no one else I can call." I hadn't the heart to tell him there wasn't much of the lower 9th left, and we weren't getting any "body" confirmations with those addresses.
About a year later I found myself in New Orleans with Mercy Response (Vineyard) and other people from all over the country. Driving into the city, we passed through several parishes. I couldn't begin to keep track of the FEMA cans (trailers) we saw, or the homes so obviously abandoned. Driving into the city, you could the valiant attempt made by some to "get on with life." We, the volunteers, heroes still in our minds, slept in a giant, patched together tent and showered in retro fitted trailers. We ate our meals in an air conditioned church, and made plans to "see the city" on our "day off." I'll never the humbling process God brought me through in those five days, or how He had imminent plans to return me to that place within a year.
The following year I was again in New Orleans - this time with a different group of people. I met a young man from NY who'd come out the year prior, and was so touched and so moved by his experiences he sold his business and lived permanently in a damp tent, out of a suitcase, and swung a hammer day in and day out. Then there was Lori, from Cincinnati, with whom I connected immediately. We toured the lower 9th one morning - silence often creeping in between us as we looked at destruction over a year away from the event itself. Standing in the parking lot of a Taco Bell, and looking up at the twisted and bent sign, we could both see clearly the wall of water that had ripped through the town center. There simply were no words to express what we were both seeing, and the little horror we could imagine was surely NOTHING compared to what the residents of this area must have experienced.
And yet, there was hope. I saw it on the face of the mailman we spent a half hour talking with and hearing his story of survival. It came across in the words of the old man who tended to the pinched arm and bruise I received when opening a table at the Dinner Mercy Response hosted every week. Turns out he was a doctor in St. Bernard parish - that is, until his entire practice along with his home was destroyed. Today, he lives in a FEMA-can and has a hot meal once a week at said dinner. I experienced it with the Sheiksnieders whose house we demo'ed the year prior, and who were now using the empty house to feed their neighbors daily. They too lived in a can, but had acquired long tables and would gather their community DAILY to break bread together, regardless of how meager or how unsubstansial. HOPE was substansial, and that's what mattered.
A young man I knew a long time ago is an amazing musician, and he wrote a song called, "There You Are" and it just encompasses my personal New Orleans experience.
There You are - holding my hand.
There You are - helping me stand.
When the night was closing in; thought I wouldn't see the light again
There You are
I went to New Orleans to be a hero - hahahahahahaaa. What I found was NOT a people who needed saving, but a people who offered their own version of salvation to those of us so presumptuous to think we were "somebody." What I learned was that I in myself am NO ONE. . .absolutely nobody. My ability to demo, to pray, to somehow "reach" these people was not so gently pushed away as God got real with me, the message coming across so clearly, "You cannot save these people darlin. I've already done that. Now if you want to help, then LISTEN and follow and be My hands, be My feet, be My ears."
Let us never forget the tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina, or the travesty of our failed response as a country.
Let's see. . .Minnesota, Cincinnati, Atlanta, Augusta, Wisconsin, and New York represented in this pic
Mike
ONE room down. . .six to go
Reclaiming the kitchen!
Hope
Laughter. . .
Noah's Ark. . .revisited
Home Sweet Home
Neither rain nor snow nor dead of night. . .nor apparently Hurricane Katrina. ..
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