Last weekend I used $20 of the money Northside’s Mission Ministry sent me. A woman and her mother were driving through the parking lot at Lowe's in Gulfport last Sunday looking for gas money to get back to Louisiana. They stopped by me as I was climbing into my truck.
I stepped down and talked to them a while. It seems she and her mother and maybe some other family drove over to a family happening in the Gulfport area but it went wrong. I didn’t explore what went wrong. She said she had a box of CD’s in the trunk and would gladly sell then for some gas money to get home.
Standing there thinking about what to do about her request, I remembered the money I folded up and put in my wallet. Finally I overrode my suspicion and doubt after talking to them and gave them cash enough for gas (5 gal for $20!!!) to get to New Orleans. The woman not only left her phone number and name with me; she was so happy that she got out of the car and gave me a hug.
Later this past week, I realized that I need a prayer or two once in a while. Sometimes in a space of a day or two the job turns on you and really gets emotionally hard, obliterating the earlier joy over doing something to help someone.
In the last few days the weight of the misery of the people remaining who desperately need help to rebuild wears on me greatly. As I go family-to-family I realize how poor this remnant people in Gulfport and environs are who still really need help from Katrina's disaster. Their stories easily draw one into their situation. It spins my emotions almost like a whirlpool drawing me into a black hole of grief.
It is a dangerous thing emotionally and I have to be mindful of it constantly to keep it from getting out of hand. I cannot escape the pathos of it all and I loathe adopting a disinterested view in order to get the job done; however, sometimes I have to do it and I know it shows to the people I'm trying to help.
I’ve written earlier that I am working at the intersection of poverty and disaster. I have seen more of both first hand than most people believe exists in this wonderful society we have. The poverty hides in statistics and in city streets off the main drag away from the casinos. It gets lost in the government rules and regulations and in the naiveté of folks being old enough to remember when a dollar went very much farther, when you kind of knew who you could trust and who you couldn’t, and when there seemed always to be family to help.
I am told Mississippi has one of the highest home ownership rates is the States. I haven't verified that fact, but if it is true, when you go to many homes you see a different story as to what has become of homes that were really fine twenty or thirty years ago. Particularly when the owner is 70 or 80 years old, perhaps a widow or widower who has lived in and owned the house since childhood but now is trying to keep up with utility bills, maintenance, reconstruction, crooked contractors and maybe supporting another family member, all on maybe $400-$500 per month.
The homes I visited in the last few days leave me feeling so blessed (and guilty) to have some money in the bank, to be living in a small trailer, to have good health, a great family and few worries about the future. Here, I meet people who have no reason for hope but good reason to feel pointless futilty. Yet they cling only to the hope, as strongly now as ever. They cling to it so strongly that one can't wrestle it from their grasp.
I hear their stories of the illnesses and effects of the stress. I see a wife whose husband is in the hospital gravely ill. She walks in a kind of tentative, stunned daze as if she has post-traumatic stress syndrome.
I meet the sons who have come home to help. I see inexplicable willingness to trust again after paying their dear recovery grant money usually of a sum of money larger than they would ever be able to amass on their own, to an underhanded contractor to rebuild ther home and finding the contractor left town with the money. They willingly withstand this unabated disaster for almost three years. They carry so much hope after so long and eschew all bitterness. This bodes well for our their future and our own, if only we open our eyes and understand their lesson.
I visited two (African-American) families to assess what we could do to repair their homes this week. In one, the elderly husband invited me into the home. Both he and his wife are in their late 70's or early 80’s. She has had surgery recently. I am captivated by the many professionally done photographs on the living room wall. There are wedding pictures from the 1950’s or 1960’s, graduation pictures of children and granddaughter, a living room that is the very picture of a “middle class” family. I imagine rich life stories in these pictures.
Something has gone very wrong here.
The house is in terrible condition. For example, the 60 ampere electrical service has the old screw-in type fuses. No one thinks twice these days about installing 200 amp service and I'll guess my sons don't know what to do with an old screw-in fuse.
They need to use a gas water heater and range since the fuses blow if they try to run air conditioner and heater or washing machine at the same time. The walls are moldy fiberboard streaked by water from the leaky roof damaged by Katrina (since repaired). The ceiling is acoustic tile, the old twelve inch squares I saw in my Grandmother’s home over 40 years ago. The tile is moldy and mildewed.
Their adult son and his early teen-aged daughter are there. He had come down from the Nashville area after Katrina and both are living with his parents trying to help. I could sense the daughter's subtle but sullen teenaged angst. Does anything change?
Over the years of their life here they have made a number of improvements to the home. They installed a brick veneer and aluminum framed windows and had some re-wiring done. But they cannot keep up with the passage of time and the rising cost of maintenance and repair. I'll guess the mother and father are probably living on about that $400-500/mo. Social Security and maybe some other support brings in.
It is doubtful we will be able to find enough grant money to repair the house. The rules might even say the cost of repair is so high that the home ought to be torn down and rebuilt.
I wonder, with whose money?
The other case today was so much worse. I was trying to reach an elderly woman but she will not answer the telephone. I have to call her son on his cell phone. I arranged to drive out to meet him. He seems about 40 years old. He lives in a very small "shotgun" house next to his mother's who has almost the same floor plan. Somehow she has title to both houses, but all that will do is probably make it harder to get her help. By the way, she has early stage Alzheimer’s. She doesn't talk much. When she does I feel a sense of her sulleness standing at the other end of her life, not the angst of the teenage girl at the threshold of hers.
Both roofs had been repaired after Katrina, thank Goodness. But her home has an older addition that has shifted on the foundation from poor workmanship, or Katrina damaged it and the first volunteers did not detect it. Whatever the cause, the house has a broken back. The ridge board of the roof of the addition has pulled loose or broken so the whole roof slumps like an old horse swaybacked from too many years carrying a saddle.
The house itself is quite neat inside, as orderly and presentable as it can be given all that has happened. There is no insulation in the walls or ceiling. Light shines through the walls in places at the baseboards.
The son's place next door is a three room house. I guess I’ll call it that. Looking more closely I can see through the cracks in the floor to the dirt under the house. Of its former kitchen, living room, bedroom and bath, now it has only one livable room, the old kitchen/living room. A bed stands in the center of the room. Fabric, maybe a sheet, drapes over its windows for privacy. The windows elsewhere in this house are covered with plywood to keep out the rain and people. Building materials are stacked in the hallway and back room, a large closet.
He has run an extension cord from his mom's house to his for electricity. He is a bright, intelligent man, you can see it in his eyes and in his talk and in his compassion for his mother. He tells me that he came back to Gulfport right after Katrina to help her. He says he'd just gotten out of the service.
He has been collecting construction materials a piece at a time; lumber, plywood, electrical wire, whatever he can find in the throw-away piles of other rebuilding projects. He is trying to put these two houses back together. He tried to rewire the house but got scared and stopped. Many of us would have just given it all up, or suggested that he do so.
I lived in a bedroom like he is living in while remodeling my house, but not only did I just do it for a little over a year, I knew it would be completed. I cannot imagine how he has been able to live this way for a period of time only two months short of three years.
What strikes me is that each of these families is doing a pretty good job of holding a distressed home and family more or less intact. They are extremely polite and gracious. It is very clear that they expect the future to be better. They bring me into their homes as if I were a longtime friend. They offer me water to drink, beg me to come in and sit down to talk while they tell me all their stories.
They do have serious expectations. They always ask me when I think they will hear about getting help or when I'll be able to send someone over to start working. It is the only time I sense that quiet desparation, the only hint that they acknowledge their awareness of the crack in their world that uncontrollably bleeds in misery. All I can do is look sheepish, or down at the ground and explain the process, telling them that answer is in the hands of someone else in this process of recovery and relief.
It think it is true, these are the people Jesus raised up to us in his Sermon on the Mount. This is part of His message. These are people who cling to patience, hope, grace and faith when the World offers them nothing to justify it. These are people who somehow manage to find it easy to be meek even though they are in a very bad way. It is a difficult message to hear, and to see, and to share.
We hear all about the problems, the gangs and crime. The gangs are around comprised mostly I imagine of folks who have given up hope, or never knew it. You see them everywhere if you will just look closely enough. We see it here in Gulfport, you see it in Chattanooga. Whether it is here in Gulfport, or in the West Side over off Martin Luther King Boulevard in Chattanooga, in this mess of a city that we have created over the last 50 years lives a microcosm of Family comprised of people who are as faithful, loving and strong as we'll find anywhere and anytime.
They aren't like us. They are fighting a world gone wrong and refusing to conform to it. You leave their presence knowing that their eye is on a different prize all the while surrounded by a land of surfeit.
Then something out of the ordinary happens to uplift me. Later that same day I had to go over to Pearlington to work out a plan for someone we are helping there. On the drive back I am unavoidably reliving the thoughts I have just written about these two families in Gulfport while listening to the local NPR station that usually plays requested classical music in the afternoon. Someone had called in a request for Handel's Hallelujah Chorus while I was still about three or four minutes from my trailer. I sang along, between tears, all the way home into the driveway.
I do not know if I ever will be able to go back to living the well-off way I have in the past. I think I know two or three people in Chattanooga who are doing a really good job of using their money wisely to help people like these. They are people who don't hesitate to spend a lot of their money quietly and privately for good things that help us to a better way. They know who they are. I admire and respect their strength of character. They are doing something I do not know if I have the strength of character to do - to overcome the temptation to succomb to greed.
I cannot look at my good fortune (I have much more than I merit) in the same way anymore having experienced all this poverty, despair and unexpected hope. For me anyway, there seems to be only one way through that narrow gate.
Peace and Grace,
Henry
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Day 82 – Faith and Work
Recently I have been reading through the words of God in First Isaiah, Christ’s teachings in Matthew and Luke, and the writings of James. These words lead me unavoidably to believe that the work of the Church in Mississippi and Louisiana to assist the relief of people devastated by Katrina and Rita really lies at the heart of what Christianity is about.
Often I struggle with my frustration and at times with the Church while ministering in this place but I know that here and now believers are living the Word in practice, signifying by their works their true commitment to Faith.
Here follows a few cities and states where volunteers have come to one village. The list doesn’t reflect multiple trips by a church team, nor does it attempt to list every church and organization that has come here to help. There are many, many more. It does reflect some particular cities whose churches have made a conscious choice to bring their ministry here.
We have five villages in Mississippi and Louisiana and we have had as many as six. Other denominations, for example, Mennonites, Baptists, Methodists, and Lutherans send many of their members and have a viable ministry here. We have other non-governmental organizations where many of our friends have stayed while working here. My list is incomplete, there are so many more cities and countries who have sent people or money, Japan, Korea for example.
In a cold, dark world seemingly preoccupied with largess, and self-satisfaction, there still is a remanant who come to show Faith in action. I offer my grateful thanks to the people of all these churches. I remind you, however, you do not have to come to the Gulf to help, not being able to travle isn't an excuse. You may go into any city and find persons who are homeless, poor and out of work, who need help repairing a room, who are struggling to hang onto hope in a hostile world, or are imprisoned. They need your ministry as well.
I pray that God blesses you all.
Cities
Bella Vista, AK
Benton, AK
Ferncliff, AK
Little Rock, AK
Brandon, CA
Longmont, CO
Tampa, FL
Marietta, GA
Greensburg, IA
Alton, IL
Monmouth, IL
Olney, IL
Washington, IL
Indianapolis, IN
Annapolis, MD
Elkton, MD
Gaithersburg, MD
Perry, MD
Dearborn, MI
Austin, MN
Saline, MN
St. Clair Shores, MN
Charlotte, NC
Greenville, NC
Wake Forest, NC
Winston-Salem, NC
Plainfield, NH
Barton, NJ
Bound Brook, NJ
Colawrenceville, NJ
Albuquerque, NM
Buffalo, NY
Cincinnati, OH
Farmersville, OH
Marietta, OH
Waterloo, ONT
London, ONT
Petewawa, ONT
Stratford, ONT
Windsor, ONT
Beaver, PA
Bloomsburg, PA
Chippewa, PA
Grove City, PA
Landsdale, PA
Uniontown, PA
Uniontown, PA
Toronto, Quebec
Chapin, SC
Chattanooga, TN
Knoxville, TN
Charlottesville, VA
Chesapeake, VA
Fairfax, VA
Kilmarnock, VA
Newport News, VA
Norfolk, VA
Penn Land, VA
Richmond, VA
Williamsburg, VA
Winchester, VA
Bothell, WA
Enumclaw, WA
Spokane, WA
Ashland, WI
Charleston, WV
Marines in Mission (CA, FL, IA, IL, KS, OH)
States by number of teams
Virginia (10)
Pennsylvania (8)
Ontario (6)
Arkansas (4)
Illinois (4)
Maryland (4)
North Carolina (4)
Ohio (4)
Minnesota (3)
New Jersey (3)
Washington (3)
California (2)
Tennessee (2)
Florida (2)
Iowa (2)
Kansas (2)
Colorado (1)
Georgia (1)
Indiana (1)
Michigan (1)
Nevada (1)
New Hampshire (1)
New Mexico (1)
New York (1)
Quebec (1)
South Carolina (1)
Wisconsin (1)
West Virginia (1)
Often I struggle with my frustration and at times with the Church while ministering in this place but I know that here and now believers are living the Word in practice, signifying by their works their true commitment to Faith.
Here follows a few cities and states where volunteers have come to one village. The list doesn’t reflect multiple trips by a church team, nor does it attempt to list every church and organization that has come here to help. There are many, many more. It does reflect some particular cities whose churches have made a conscious choice to bring their ministry here.
We have five villages in Mississippi and Louisiana and we have had as many as six. Other denominations, for example, Mennonites, Baptists, Methodists, and Lutherans send many of their members and have a viable ministry here. We have other non-governmental organizations where many of our friends have stayed while working here. My list is incomplete, there are so many more cities and countries who have sent people or money, Japan, Korea for example.
In a cold, dark world seemingly preoccupied with largess, and self-satisfaction, there still is a remanant who come to show Faith in action. I offer my grateful thanks to the people of all these churches. I remind you, however, you do not have to come to the Gulf to help, not being able to travle isn't an excuse. You may go into any city and find persons who are homeless, poor and out of work, who need help repairing a room, who are struggling to hang onto hope in a hostile world, or are imprisoned. They need your ministry as well.
I pray that God blesses you all.
Cities
Bella Vista, AK
Benton, AK
Ferncliff, AK
Little Rock, AK
Brandon, CA
Longmont, CO
Tampa, FL
Marietta, GA
Greensburg, IA
Alton, IL
Monmouth, IL
Olney, IL
Washington, IL
Indianapolis, IN
Annapolis, MD
Elkton, MD
Gaithersburg, MD
Perry, MD
Dearborn, MI
Austin, MN
Saline, MN
St. Clair Shores, MN
Charlotte, NC
Greenville, NC
Wake Forest, NC
Winston-Salem, NC
Plainfield, NH
Barton, NJ
Bound Brook, NJ
Colawrenceville, NJ
Albuquerque, NM
Buffalo, NY
Cincinnati, OH
Farmersville, OH
Marietta, OH
Waterloo, ONT
London, ONT
Petewawa, ONT
Stratford, ONT
Windsor, ONT
Beaver, PA
Bloomsburg, PA
Chippewa, PA
Grove City, PA
Landsdale, PA
Uniontown, PA
Uniontown, PA
Toronto, Quebec
Chapin, SC
Chattanooga, TN
Knoxville, TN
Charlottesville, VA
Chesapeake, VA
Fairfax, VA
Kilmarnock, VA
Newport News, VA
Norfolk, VA
Penn Land, VA
Richmond, VA
Williamsburg, VA
Winchester, VA
Bothell, WA
Enumclaw, WA
Spokane, WA
Ashland, WI
Charleston, WV
Marines in Mission (CA, FL, IA, IL, KS, OH)
States by number of teams
Virginia (10)
Pennsylvania (8)
Ontario (6)
Arkansas (4)
Illinois (4)
Maryland (4)
North Carolina (4)
Ohio (4)
Minnesota (3)
New Jersey (3)
Washington (3)
California (2)
Tennessee (2)
Florida (2)
Iowa (2)
Kansas (2)
Colorado (1)
Georgia (1)
Indiana (1)
Michigan (1)
Nevada (1)
New Hampshire (1)
New Mexico (1)
New York (1)
Quebec (1)
South Carolina (1)
Wisconsin (1)
West Virginia (1)
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Day 78 - The Big Easy
I spent the weekend over in New Orleans down in the French Quarter a couple of weeks ago. A friend is working for a subcontractor for the state demolishing houses abandoned or too badly damaged by Katrina to be repaired. His work covers St. Bernard and Orleans parishes, and I think the Lower Ninth Ward.
I got over to the city mid-afternoon on Saturday and caught up with him at his rental studio apartment just off the Quarter. We talked a while catching up on all that has happened since we parted back in Chattanooga and then left on a walk past the casino into the French Quarter. The last time I was here was early April when I gave a talk at the Convention Center.
This time, we made it an easy stroll taking time to look at the shops, bars and music venues. We walked over to the levee on the Mississippi and back into the Quarter.
I spent some time looking at these establishments on the first floor and the apartments on the upper floors, imagining the stories of lives lived in them. I knew the interior of the blocks had some living space but I’d never taken the time to stop and peer through the gates, alleys and open garage doors to see the intimate and often delicately ornate gardens hidden behind these storefronts.
My fascination over these sanctuaries from the hubbub on the street grew as we walked. It was hard not to imagine how much fun it must be living in these flats watching the crowds pass every night, or walking down the stairs to join the revelry.
"The lucky ones have garages that provided the precious luxury of off-street parking. Look at that one on the corner that’s for rent. The whole thing is for sale, but I think you can rent the upstairs flat.”
I looked up at the tall narrow windows. There still was enough evening sunlight to see into the bare interior. A small chandelier hung in the living room. I think the flat holds a bedroom, living room and kitchen, plus the bath. Pretty limited space, but it has a nice balcony with wrought iron railings.
“I wonder what it rents for?”
“It rent for about $2500 a month, cheaper that what I’m paying now.”
“That’s not bad for this whole building.”
“No. That’s $2500 for the apartment.”
“Really?”
“My studio is for sale for $400,000. That’s one of the reasons I know about this place, if the studio sells I‘ve got to locate another place to live.”
The subcontract my friend is working on provides him a housing allowance that accommodates the reality of the high rent in this area. We walked on but now I was preoccupied thinking about how interesting it would be to live here, and what job I would have to snag to carry the rent.
We stopped in front of the Catholic Church on the square and watched a statuesque mime with a silvered face sit motionless on his bike. Had I not seen him a few minutes earlier I would have assumed he was just a piece of street art.
My friend realized something was going on in the church. He asked the policeman who was watching the entrance and discovered a wedding ceremony was in progress.
The policeman said it was OK to go in and listen.
“Just sit over towards the side and don’t disturb the rite.”
We went in during the priest’s sermon. The groom and bride knelt before the altar and the priest stood between them and the congregants. Periodically the priest would make a comment about the future role of the husband, or wife. This caused that person-to-be to turn a little uneasily on their knees to gain a backward glimpse at the priest. I felt badly for them. There was really no way to see the priest except to stand up and turn, and it was obvious they were not going to do that.
We left before the ceremony ended. As we went out I heard a young girl scream. She had touched the statute on the bicycle and the mime came to life giving her quite a fright.
As we walked on, I kept thinking about the apartments and courtyard gardens and what kind of job it would take to keep one. It would be so intriguing to live there.
The next day we went to the service at the Methodist Church over on St. Charles Avenue. It so happens that this Sunday was the first day of the 2008 hurricane season. The OT lectionary dealt with Noah and The Flood. The pastor remarked the congregation had no recourse. She could have used the New Testament reading in Matthew but that one gave no quarter as it was Jesus’ story of the wise man who built his house on rock and the foolish one who built on sand before the rain came down.
Afterwards with the thoughts of a nice balcony on a back street in the French Quarter still lingering in my head, we drove around the neighborhoods where he was working on the demolitions. There are so many houses that show no sign of reconstruction. The high watermarks are visible on a lot of them. Interspersed we see other homes fully rebuilt. It goes on street after street.
“They built the French Quarter where it is because it is high ground. It was the only safe place to live around here. Unfortunately New Orleans decided to grow.”
As we circled back and as we neared the Quarter again, my friend’s comments coming on the end of the tour was a sudden slap that me broke my thoughts on how I could make the money to get one of those flats. I realized it was time to get back to the camp to get ready for next week.
I thought about the narrow gate. I drove back towards Gulfport increasingly mortified over how easily the idea of easy living displaced my focus on the purpose of my being here in the Gulf.
I got over to the city mid-afternoon on Saturday and caught up with him at his rental studio apartment just off the Quarter. We talked a while catching up on all that has happened since we parted back in Chattanooga and then left on a walk past the casino into the French Quarter. The last time I was here was early April when I gave a talk at the Convention Center.
This time, we made it an easy stroll taking time to look at the shops, bars and music venues. We walked over to the levee on the Mississippi and back into the Quarter.
I spent some time looking at these establishments on the first floor and the apartments on the upper floors, imagining the stories of lives lived in them. I knew the interior of the blocks had some living space but I’d never taken the time to stop and peer through the gates, alleys and open garage doors to see the intimate and often delicately ornate gardens hidden behind these storefronts.
My fascination over these sanctuaries from the hubbub on the street grew as we walked. It was hard not to imagine how much fun it must be living in these flats watching the crowds pass every night, or walking down the stairs to join the revelry.
"The lucky ones have garages that provided the precious luxury of off-street parking. Look at that one on the corner that’s for rent. The whole thing is for sale, but I think you can rent the upstairs flat.”
I looked up at the tall narrow windows. There still was enough evening sunlight to see into the bare interior. A small chandelier hung in the living room. I think the flat holds a bedroom, living room and kitchen, plus the bath. Pretty limited space, but it has a nice balcony with wrought iron railings.
“I wonder what it rents for?”
“It rent for about $2500 a month, cheaper that what I’m paying now.”
“That’s not bad for this whole building.”
“No. That’s $2500 for the apartment.”
“Really?”
“My studio is for sale for $400,000. That’s one of the reasons I know about this place, if the studio sells I‘ve got to locate another place to live.”
The subcontract my friend is working on provides him a housing allowance that accommodates the reality of the high rent in this area. We walked on but now I was preoccupied thinking about how interesting it would be to live here, and what job I would have to snag to carry the rent.
We stopped in front of the Catholic Church on the square and watched a statuesque mime with a silvered face sit motionless on his bike. Had I not seen him a few minutes earlier I would have assumed he was just a piece of street art.
My friend realized something was going on in the church. He asked the policeman who was watching the entrance and discovered a wedding ceremony was in progress.
The policeman said it was OK to go in and listen.
“Just sit over towards the side and don’t disturb the rite.”
We went in during the priest’s sermon. The groom and bride knelt before the altar and the priest stood between them and the congregants. Periodically the priest would make a comment about the future role of the husband, or wife. This caused that person-to-be to turn a little uneasily on their knees to gain a backward glimpse at the priest. I felt badly for them. There was really no way to see the priest except to stand up and turn, and it was obvious they were not going to do that.
We left before the ceremony ended. As we went out I heard a young girl scream. She had touched the statute on the bicycle and the mime came to life giving her quite a fright.
As we walked on, I kept thinking about the apartments and courtyard gardens and what kind of job it would take to keep one. It would be so intriguing to live there.
The next day we went to the service at the Methodist Church over on St. Charles Avenue. It so happens that this Sunday was the first day of the 2008 hurricane season. The OT lectionary dealt with Noah and The Flood. The pastor remarked the congregation had no recourse. She could have used the New Testament reading in Matthew but that one gave no quarter as it was Jesus’ story of the wise man who built his house on rock and the foolish one who built on sand before the rain came down.
Afterwards with the thoughts of a nice balcony on a back street in the French Quarter still lingering in my head, we drove around the neighborhoods where he was working on the demolitions. There are so many houses that show no sign of reconstruction. The high watermarks are visible on a lot of them. Interspersed we see other homes fully rebuilt. It goes on street after street.
“They built the French Quarter where it is because it is high ground. It was the only safe place to live around here. Unfortunately New Orleans decided to grow.”
As we circled back and as we neared the Quarter again, my friend’s comments coming on the end of the tour was a sudden slap that me broke my thoughts on how I could make the money to get one of those flats. I realized it was time to get back to the camp to get ready for next week.
I thought about the narrow gate. I drove back towards Gulfport increasingly mortified over how easily the idea of easy living displaced my focus on the purpose of my being here in the Gulf.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Day 69 – Respite in God's Resplendent Nature
An important part of this job is “decompression.” This means for most an enforced period when we remove ourselves, both mind and body, from the daily press of this job. It is a time to refresh and take care of our stress level.
I thought this was an unnecessary thing to do, after all, I’ve worked hard at my jobs all my life. But, I’ve found this is a different kind of job.
It is a job that you can easily get to the point you feel every minute you spend away from it is stealing from someone who is on the edge of despair. If one does not get away from that pressure once in a while to take care of the “caregiver” one risks severe burnout and low productivity.
The day before yesterday we conducted an orientation for our new staff volunteers, and today we took care of ourselves, we ran away for seven hours to Ship Island, a forty-five minute ferry ride south of Gulfport.
West Ship Island is a thin sandy barrier island absent any natural shade from the sun save the night. It is not more than 400 - 500 yards across for the most part, elsewhere it is cut into parts by high tide in places, and its eastern and western terminus is washed by rip tides. Its sand west end is moving slowlys, shifting the island every so slightly eastwards day by day. Gulfport, Biloxi and Pascagoula sit low on the shore to the north.
I like the beach. Sufficiently covered with sunscreen and a good hat (thanks to my wonderful staff at Steward Environmental Solutions), I always have camera in hand searching for the randomly encountered acts of God that impart beauty to the least parts of nature.
Today that search found competition. Here follows a pictorial essay, first one on God’s beauty and then Man’s stewardship of it. You decide how well we exercise that stewardship.
And God said, "Let us make man in our own image, after our likeness, and let them have dominion over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over all that creeps upon the earth. So God created man in his own image." ( Gen. 1:26-27, RSV)
For the beauty of the Earth...
(click on photograph for large view)
Plant or animal?
Flowers in Sand
Patterns in Beach Sand 1
Driftwood 1
Driftwood 2
Driftwood 3
Sand Crab Diggings
Stay away from our nest!
Seaborne Walnut
Patterns in Beach Sand 2
Driftwood 4
Passing of Time 1
Passing of Time 2
Hat
Shampoo
Fishnet
Chicken Livers
Bear our Load
Cheers 1!
Fault!
Child's Play
Litter
Decoy
Television
Cheers 2!
Cheers 3!
Please be kind to Mother Nature.
I thought this was an unnecessary thing to do, after all, I’ve worked hard at my jobs all my life. But, I’ve found this is a different kind of job.
It is a job that you can easily get to the point you feel every minute you spend away from it is stealing from someone who is on the edge of despair. If one does not get away from that pressure once in a while to take care of the “caregiver” one risks severe burnout and low productivity.
The day before yesterday we conducted an orientation for our new staff volunteers, and today we took care of ourselves, we ran away for seven hours to Ship Island, a forty-five minute ferry ride south of Gulfport.
West Ship Island is a thin sandy barrier island absent any natural shade from the sun save the night. It is not more than 400 - 500 yards across for the most part, elsewhere it is cut into parts by high tide in places, and its eastern and western terminus is washed by rip tides. Its sand west end is moving slowlys, shifting the island every so slightly eastwards day by day. Gulfport, Biloxi and Pascagoula sit low on the shore to the north.
I like the beach. Sufficiently covered with sunscreen and a good hat (thanks to my wonderful staff at Steward Environmental Solutions), I always have camera in hand searching for the randomly encountered acts of God that impart beauty to the least parts of nature.
Today that search found competition. Here follows a pictorial essay, first one on God’s beauty and then Man’s stewardship of it. You decide how well we exercise that stewardship.
And God said, "Let us make man in our own image, after our likeness, and let them have dominion over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over all that creeps upon the earth. So God created man in his own image." ( Gen. 1:26-27, RSV)
For the beauty of the Earth...
(click on photograph for large view)
Plant or animal?
Flowers in Sand
Patterns in Beach Sand 1
Driftwood 1
Driftwood 2
Driftwood 3
Sand Crab Diggings
Stay away from our nest!
Seaborne Walnut
Patterns in Beach Sand 2
Driftwood 4
Passing of Time 1
Passing of Time 2
Hat
Shampoo
Fishnet
Chicken Livers
Bear our Load
Cheers 1!
Fault!
Child's Play
Litter
Decoy
Television
Cheers 2!
Cheers 3!
Please be kind to Mother Nature.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Day 57 - Do not Be Anxious about Tomorrow (Mr. Gary’s Kitchen Floor)
I drive up to Gary’s home about 11AM. The house looks pretty good from the outside, but it has been almost three years since Katrina. Gary is sitting in a chair in his front yard watching the volunteer crew work. It looks like both he and the work crew perk up as I pull up into his drive way.
Gary is a really happy guy with no good reason other than he is still alive. I hope I can find that strength to laugh, to engage people, to talk when I’m carrying a heavy burden inside.
I guess Gary is in his late 60’s, it’s hard to tell. His health does not appear the best. (Later walking into his house, the smell tells me that he is a heavy smoker. Prescription bottles litter the table in his living room.)
“Mr. Gary, that siding looks really good. Somebody did a really good job.”
As I say this a really large, satisfied smile grows on his face.
“You know, that siding was done by the Mennonites. They told me it was the first time they had installed siding. “
I walk around outside, looking at the edges and window fit in more detail.
“Well, the Mennonites have a good reputation for building houses, I’m not surprised. It looks like a fine job.”
“It was done over a year and a half ago.”
While he is talking, I am mentally going through my checklist from the work-site manager over what we have to do here. I know there is a floor to install, some painting and replacing a column on his carport. I’m here because we need to install his kitchen floor and the crew is nervous about it.
A large roll of sheet vinyl lies on the pavement of carport. All I can think is when was the last time I saw sheet vinyl installed? I am not sure I’ve ever done it but I do remember some issues about how easy it is to tear, how hard it is to make a good seam, and how once you cut it too short you are up the creek. Uneasily I go into the house to check out the kitchen floor.
None of the crew or the work-site manager say anything. They just look at me expectantly, as if they are reading my doubts. Mr. Gary is looking at me too, and smiling. He seems to be project a confidence in me, as if I had an expertise that I plainly do not feel I have.
I look at the floor for a few minutes, revisiting those few painful things about vinyl, first the floor has to be spotlessly clean. The least little particle left behind reveals a distinct pimple in the vinyl if it is not removed. Crevices between subfloor, nail heads, anything will eventually show up as a mar in the surface. It is easy to tear. The troweling of the contact adhesive is a messy job. I am not looking forward to this one.
“Let’s get some measurements and see how the kitchen lays out on the vinyl. We are going to have to cut it, roll it up and carefully lay it down on the floor to check its fit. We may have to trim some more after that.”
I am looking for something to delay all this. I use my tape again to get the floor dimensions between cabinets, range, refrigerator and doors. Doing this again, I see that the lauan plywood that had been laid down as a subfloor for the vinyl was nailed with smooth-shank nails. Even now some of the nails not well seated are creeping up as the plywood flexed.
“I thought I said to use ring-shank nails, or even screws? These nails are going to have to be sistered with ring-shank nails, every nail head be well seated, and if necessary covered with leveling compound.”
There are no ring-shank nails, or screws on site and the leveling compound is partially dried out. I’ll need to go to the homebuilders’ supply store and get the nails and fresh compound. I put the crew to work nailing down the emerging nail heads in the plywood and head outside to the store.
After I get back with the nails and leveling compound I get them started on that. Now I have to tackle the vinyl on his concrete driveway. I measure and lay out the lines with blue masking tape.
Confused about one measurement, I keep repeating, “measure twice, cut once” as I walk back to the kitchen. It sounds like something an experienced pro would say.
Well then I saw this new fellow looking into the kitchen doorway besides Mr. Gary. He didn’t say much but Mr. Gary was smiling beside him.
One thing I learned a long time ago, when you are doing this kind of construction work and someone with some experience drops by to look in, you get a lot of information from comments or facial expressions. You usually get it fast.
“Mr. Henry, this is Edward, he did the plumbing and electrical work for free. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Mr. Gary’s expression changed after Edward’s visit. He seems even more respectful and friendly towards me.
“Yes, Mr. Henry, you’re going to give me a nice floor. I can tell.”
Of course this just raises the ante for me, puts a little more pressure on me. I keep thinking if those nails come up later, it’s my fault.
“Now Mr. Gary, I’ll do my best but I can’t promise anything but what I can do.”
“Mr. Henry, I just want my kitchen floor. I know you’ll do a good job; there isn’t anyone else around to do it. Do you think we can get the stove back installed today? I know you are going to do a fine job.”
“Well, Mr. Gary, I think I want to lay out these lines and see how we are doing. Also after the crew finished re-nailing we are going to want to apply some leveling compound to fill in the low spots. We want to let the compound dry.”
By this time it was after 4:30PM. I knew the leveling compound wouldn’t set soon enough for us to sand, sweep and vacuum today. Plus the one chance I have to cut that vinyl was still worrying me.
“Mr. Gary, I think we need to let the leveling compound set until tomorrow, to be safe.”
“OK, if you say so Mr. Henry.”
“Mr. Gary, we will get it all set up and lay the floor tomorrow morning. Is that OK with you.”
Yes, Mr. Henry, you’re in charge, I know you’ll do a good job.”
He said that with such confidence that it only increases my discomfort.
During the late evening at my trailer, I find one of my reference books. Vinyl floors.
“Of course! The paper template.”
My book says carefully lay out, cut and tape Kraft paper on the kitchen floor to form a template, them roll it up and transfer the layout to the unrolled vinyl.
On the way back the next morning I stop by the builders’ supply store and buy a roll of Kraft paper and masking tape. We lay out and cut the paper template, carefully taping it so we can transfer the outline to the vinyl. If we mess it up it is going to be my fault.
Finally I have to take my knife in hand and with the help of my crew cut out the pattern. As I cut the vinyl I can tell how soft and resilient it is, how it is going to be a nice slightly cushioned floor. And, on top of that the ceramic tile pattern is remarkably realistic. This is going to be a nice floor. If I do not mess it up.
I kept delaying the final step. I asked the crew to sweep and vacuum the floor twice. Then I went over it carefully. Finally, I had to move on.
“Let’s roll it up and see how well it fits the kitchen.”
No one objects. When we unroll it I realize I’ve used the wrong dimension to the door left about 15 inches excess. Thank goodness everything else but the looks ok, but I will have to cut the curved pattern of the door just before we glue.
“OK, I guess we roll it up and take it outside so I can trim this long edge.”
All this time I’m thinking every time we roll and unroll this vinyl we risk a tear. It could be 100 degrees outside by the way I am sweating heavily from the stress.
Finally, I have no choice but to cut the long edge.
“OK, let’s roll it up. We will place the rolled vinyl down, trowel the adhesive and unroll, and then gradually troweling and unroll a few feet at a time working our way across the room. One of you needs to use the roller behind us to ensure the glued vinyl makes good contact and squeegee any wrinkles as we go.”
By this time it’s close to five in the afternoon. The crew is supposed to fix dinner at camp tonight for the 6:30 dinnertime. It is a 40 minute drive back. I look at the crew leader who is staring at me. Mr. Gary is sitting in his chair the living room but is listening with a keen ear to our deliberation. It is an obvious decision. We send back all the crew as the team leader says to me that we’ll work until we are done. I nod my assent.
Mr. Gary stands and walks to the doorway watching us trowel, unroll a little and wait the designated 10-20 minutes and start again until we are done.
“It surely looks nice, Mr. Henry.”
“Mr. Gary this is a beautiful floor. I sure hope our nailing is ok. “
Mr. Gary’s smile is beaming.
“Mr. Henry, you’ve done well. I’m sure it is OK. It’s been almost three years since I’ve had a kitchen. Say, do you think I can walk on it now?”
“Well, I’d think I’d want to give it about 24 hours to set. What about tomorrow evening?”
I can see his disappointment.
“Oh, I want to brig my grandchildren over to see it! Do you think it would be ok? I guess I can just keep them off it and let them look.”
“I’m not so sure, Mr. Gary, we need to let the glue set a little.”
I stand there listening to this, thinking how happy he is, how something a straightforward as a new kitchen is so great an emotional achievement in Mr. Gary’s life. Right now his greatest joy is for his grandchildren to see this fine, new floor.
I relent.
“Mr. Gary, I guess if you are really careful and don’t let them walk on it very much it will be fine to show it off to night.”
“Don’t worry, it might be 7:30PM before thy can get over here.”
We pack up our tools and toss all of the debris cluttering his carport them into my truck, leaving carport clear and clean. Mr. Gary and I shake hands and exchange good byes.
”Mr. Henry, tonight is the first time since Katrina that I can park my car in the carport.”
All the way back to Gulfport I’m thinking how something as simple as a new floor, the expectation of a working kitchen tomorrow and a clean carport can be such a great joy to give someone.
I’m thinking how true it is that for these surge-stricken people. They measure the context of their life in time “after Katrina, ” as what ever happened previously pales in significance.
And then I realize between a tear or two how true this measurement is for me.
God bless such gentle spirits as Mr. Gary.
Gary is a really happy guy with no good reason other than he is still alive. I hope I can find that strength to laugh, to engage people, to talk when I’m carrying a heavy burden inside.
I guess Gary is in his late 60’s, it’s hard to tell. His health does not appear the best. (Later walking into his house, the smell tells me that he is a heavy smoker. Prescription bottles litter the table in his living room.)
“Mr. Gary, that siding looks really good. Somebody did a really good job.”
As I say this a really large, satisfied smile grows on his face.
“You know, that siding was done by the Mennonites. They told me it was the first time they had installed siding. “
I walk around outside, looking at the edges and window fit in more detail.
“Well, the Mennonites have a good reputation for building houses, I’m not surprised. It looks like a fine job.”
“It was done over a year and a half ago.”
While he is talking, I am mentally going through my checklist from the work-site manager over what we have to do here. I know there is a floor to install, some painting and replacing a column on his carport. I’m here because we need to install his kitchen floor and the crew is nervous about it.
A large roll of sheet vinyl lies on the pavement of carport. All I can think is when was the last time I saw sheet vinyl installed? I am not sure I’ve ever done it but I do remember some issues about how easy it is to tear, how hard it is to make a good seam, and how once you cut it too short you are up the creek. Uneasily I go into the house to check out the kitchen floor.
None of the crew or the work-site manager say anything. They just look at me expectantly, as if they are reading my doubts. Mr. Gary is looking at me too, and smiling. He seems to be project a confidence in me, as if I had an expertise that I plainly do not feel I have.
I look at the floor for a few minutes, revisiting those few painful things about vinyl, first the floor has to be spotlessly clean. The least little particle left behind reveals a distinct pimple in the vinyl if it is not removed. Crevices between subfloor, nail heads, anything will eventually show up as a mar in the surface. It is easy to tear. The troweling of the contact adhesive is a messy job. I am not looking forward to this one.
“Let’s get some measurements and see how the kitchen lays out on the vinyl. We are going to have to cut it, roll it up and carefully lay it down on the floor to check its fit. We may have to trim some more after that.”
I am looking for something to delay all this. I use my tape again to get the floor dimensions between cabinets, range, refrigerator and doors. Doing this again, I see that the lauan plywood that had been laid down as a subfloor for the vinyl was nailed with smooth-shank nails. Even now some of the nails not well seated are creeping up as the plywood flexed.
“I thought I said to use ring-shank nails, or even screws? These nails are going to have to be sistered with ring-shank nails, every nail head be well seated, and if necessary covered with leveling compound.”
There are no ring-shank nails, or screws on site and the leveling compound is partially dried out. I’ll need to go to the homebuilders’ supply store and get the nails and fresh compound. I put the crew to work nailing down the emerging nail heads in the plywood and head outside to the store.
After I get back with the nails and leveling compound I get them started on that. Now I have to tackle the vinyl on his concrete driveway. I measure and lay out the lines with blue masking tape.
Confused about one measurement, I keep repeating, “measure twice, cut once” as I walk back to the kitchen. It sounds like something an experienced pro would say.
Well then I saw this new fellow looking into the kitchen doorway besides Mr. Gary. He didn’t say much but Mr. Gary was smiling beside him.
One thing I learned a long time ago, when you are doing this kind of construction work and someone with some experience drops by to look in, you get a lot of information from comments or facial expressions. You usually get it fast.
“Mr. Henry, this is Edward, he did the plumbing and electrical work for free. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Mr. Gary’s expression changed after Edward’s visit. He seems even more respectful and friendly towards me.
“Yes, Mr. Henry, you’re going to give me a nice floor. I can tell.”
Of course this just raises the ante for me, puts a little more pressure on me. I keep thinking if those nails come up later, it’s my fault.
“Now Mr. Gary, I’ll do my best but I can’t promise anything but what I can do.”
“Mr. Henry, I just want my kitchen floor. I know you’ll do a good job; there isn’t anyone else around to do it. Do you think we can get the stove back installed today? I know you are going to do a fine job.”
“Well, Mr. Gary, I think I want to lay out these lines and see how we are doing. Also after the crew finished re-nailing we are going to want to apply some leveling compound to fill in the low spots. We want to let the compound dry.”
By this time it was after 4:30PM. I knew the leveling compound wouldn’t set soon enough for us to sand, sweep and vacuum today. Plus the one chance I have to cut that vinyl was still worrying me.
“Mr. Gary, I think we need to let the leveling compound set until tomorrow, to be safe.”
“OK, if you say so Mr. Henry.”
“Mr. Gary, we will get it all set up and lay the floor tomorrow morning. Is that OK with you.”
Yes, Mr. Henry, you’re in charge, I know you’ll do a good job.”
He said that with such confidence that it only increases my discomfort.
During the late evening at my trailer, I find one of my reference books. Vinyl floors.
“Of course! The paper template.”
My book says carefully lay out, cut and tape Kraft paper on the kitchen floor to form a template, them roll it up and transfer the layout to the unrolled vinyl.
On the way back the next morning I stop by the builders’ supply store and buy a roll of Kraft paper and masking tape. We lay out and cut the paper template, carefully taping it so we can transfer the outline to the vinyl. If we mess it up it is going to be my fault.
Finally I have to take my knife in hand and with the help of my crew cut out the pattern. As I cut the vinyl I can tell how soft and resilient it is, how it is going to be a nice slightly cushioned floor. And, on top of that the ceramic tile pattern is remarkably realistic. This is going to be a nice floor. If I do not mess it up.
I kept delaying the final step. I asked the crew to sweep and vacuum the floor twice. Then I went over it carefully. Finally, I had to move on.
“Let’s roll it up and see how well it fits the kitchen.”
No one objects. When we unroll it I realize I’ve used the wrong dimension to the door left about 15 inches excess. Thank goodness everything else but the looks ok, but I will have to cut the curved pattern of the door just before we glue.
“OK, I guess we roll it up and take it outside so I can trim this long edge.”
All this time I’m thinking every time we roll and unroll this vinyl we risk a tear. It could be 100 degrees outside by the way I am sweating heavily from the stress.
Finally, I have no choice but to cut the long edge.
“OK, let’s roll it up. We will place the rolled vinyl down, trowel the adhesive and unroll, and then gradually troweling and unroll a few feet at a time working our way across the room. One of you needs to use the roller behind us to ensure the glued vinyl makes good contact and squeegee any wrinkles as we go.”
By this time it’s close to five in the afternoon. The crew is supposed to fix dinner at camp tonight for the 6:30 dinnertime. It is a 40 minute drive back. I look at the crew leader who is staring at me. Mr. Gary is sitting in his chair the living room but is listening with a keen ear to our deliberation. It is an obvious decision. We send back all the crew as the team leader says to me that we’ll work until we are done. I nod my assent.
Mr. Gary stands and walks to the doorway watching us trowel, unroll a little and wait the designated 10-20 minutes and start again until we are done.
“It surely looks nice, Mr. Henry.”
“Mr. Gary this is a beautiful floor. I sure hope our nailing is ok. “
Mr. Gary’s smile is beaming.
“Mr. Henry, you’ve done well. I’m sure it is OK. It’s been almost three years since I’ve had a kitchen. Say, do you think I can walk on it now?”
“Well, I’d think I’d want to give it about 24 hours to set. What about tomorrow evening?”
I can see his disappointment.
“Oh, I want to brig my grandchildren over to see it! Do you think it would be ok? I guess I can just keep them off it and let them look.”
“I’m not so sure, Mr. Gary, we need to let the glue set a little.”
I stand there listening to this, thinking how happy he is, how something a straightforward as a new kitchen is so great an emotional achievement in Mr. Gary’s life. Right now his greatest joy is for his grandchildren to see this fine, new floor.
I relent.
“Mr. Gary, I guess if you are really careful and don’t let them walk on it very much it will be fine to show it off to night.”
“Don’t worry, it might be 7:30PM before thy can get over here.”
We pack up our tools and toss all of the debris cluttering his carport them into my truck, leaving carport clear and clean. Mr. Gary and I shake hands and exchange good byes.
”Mr. Henry, tonight is the first time since Katrina that I can park my car in the carport.”
All the way back to Gulfport I’m thinking how something as simple as a new floor, the expectation of a working kitchen tomorrow and a clean carport can be such a great joy to give someone.
I’m thinking how true it is that for these surge-stricken people. They measure the context of their life in time “after Katrina, ” as what ever happened previously pales in significance.
And then I realize between a tear or two how true this measurement is for me.
God bless such gentle spirits as Mr. Gary.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Day 56 - Mysterious Ways and Coincidences
A week ago Friday after reviewing the work and teams for the week, I was a little uncertain as the skill definition of the teams was not very clear in the paperwork. We had a team coming down from the northeastern Pennsylvania region, a team from South Carolina and a group from Davidson College (North Carolina) arriving early in the week in Pearlington.
On top of that we were to have a team of mostly rising college sophomores from Arkansas at our camp in Gulfport and a new work site manager. To top that off, our work site manager in Pearlington was slowed down quite a bit (90%?) from a mishap he had previously. Add to that a staff meeting Thursday in Houma, Louisiana. Nevertheless, the week took an interesting turn.
I spent the week driving back and forth from Pascagoula where half the Arkansas group was working and our Pearlington sites. Our Gulfport work site manager supervised the other half of the Arkansas group who were working closer to Gulfport. Pascagoula is quite a ways from Pearlington, east of Biloxi and Ocean Springs, almost at the Alabama state line.
Even Pascagoula on the other side of the state suffered the surge that baptized Pearlington. The house across the street from the home we were working offered a good idea of how the water rose in Pascagoula. We are about a seven minute walk to the ocean here at the house. You see in the picture the brick lamppost across the street. The water rose to the fourth brick from the top.
Mr. Gary told us he was sitting in his living room and he noticed a wet spot on the floor under his TV. Within minutes the water rose into his house about 2 ½ feet, just below the TV base. And like a surging wave at the beach, as fast as it rose, it fell in the space of a minute or two. Unfortunately it ruined drywall, flooring, food, appliances and anything else that close to the floor.
From the lamppost you can see it also pretty well soaked any cars in the driveway.
Mr. Gary was so happy we were there - of course the charm of our work crew had something to do with it. He brought us crawfish and for me, a shrimp poor boy sandwich. Excellent. I feel so bad that it has taken us 2 ½ years to get to him and his house, but our crew, thanks to the work site manager, completed everything but painting a few baseboards and replacing a column in the car port. They were so good.
Even though I wanted to be sure this crew was well established I had to go to Pearlington Monday to be sure the three teams there were set up right. I didn’t make it to Pearlington until after lunch and then didn’t make it back again until Friday.
I rushed over Friday because I wanted to meet the Davidson crew. I knew JoeB attended there and I had some peculiar sense about needing to meet the group.
What a surprise! As soon as I arrived Friday morning, I got the work location from Heather the village manager and located them about 8:30AM. I introduced myself to the team leader, the associate minister from Westminster PC. I knew she was a true trooper because as I looked up the steps of the house to the deck, there she stood with like the captain of a ship but with her very young infant daughter in her arms.
I introduced myself and mentioned Jodi and JoeB, my pastors at Northside in Chattanooga. She had this big, effusive smile and said,
“Jodi! She and I were classmates in seminary. I’m Kathy Beach-Verhey.”
After I finished talking with her about Jodi and Northside she asked if I knew Rachel Taylor!
‘Of course! Sometimes when I’m not singing in the choir I find myself sitting behind her.”
“Her daughter is in the other room.”
“Really?”
"Meet Linda Steber.”
Well Linda and I spent quite a few minutes talking about Rachel and how small the Presbyterian Church seems some times when these events happen. (I may have mentioned a few weeks ago that a daughter and son-in law of some Southwest Pennsylvania Presbyterian volunteers in Gulfport live in my old house in New Kensington, PA.)
Linda asked me if I knew Mary and Dennis Goodwin. I never had time to me to explain that when I sat behind Rachel it usually was also behind them.
It is written for us to be kind to strangers; one never knows when one is entertaining an angel. I’m not sure I believe in coincidences, only in mysterious ways.
On top of that we were to have a team of mostly rising college sophomores from Arkansas at our camp in Gulfport and a new work site manager. To top that off, our work site manager in Pearlington was slowed down quite a bit (90%?) from a mishap he had previously. Add to that a staff meeting Thursday in Houma, Louisiana. Nevertheless, the week took an interesting turn.
I spent the week driving back and forth from Pascagoula where half the Arkansas group was working and our Pearlington sites. Our Gulfport work site manager supervised the other half of the Arkansas group who were working closer to Gulfport. Pascagoula is quite a ways from Pearlington, east of Biloxi and Ocean Springs, almost at the Alabama state line.
Even Pascagoula on the other side of the state suffered the surge that baptized Pearlington. The house across the street from the home we were working offered a good idea of how the water rose in Pascagoula. We are about a seven minute walk to the ocean here at the house. You see in the picture the brick lamppost across the street. The water rose to the fourth brick from the top.
Mr. Gary told us he was sitting in his living room and he noticed a wet spot on the floor under his TV. Within minutes the water rose into his house about 2 ½ feet, just below the TV base. And like a surging wave at the beach, as fast as it rose, it fell in the space of a minute or two. Unfortunately it ruined drywall, flooring, food, appliances and anything else that close to the floor.
From the lamppost you can see it also pretty well soaked any cars in the driveway.
Mr. Gary was so happy we were there - of course the charm of our work crew had something to do with it. He brought us crawfish and for me, a shrimp poor boy sandwich. Excellent. I feel so bad that it has taken us 2 ½ years to get to him and his house, but our crew, thanks to the work site manager, completed everything but painting a few baseboards and replacing a column in the car port. They were so good.Even though I wanted to be sure this crew was well established I had to go to Pearlington Monday to be sure the three teams there were set up right. I didn’t make it to Pearlington until after lunch and then didn’t make it back again until Friday.
I rushed over Friday because I wanted to meet the Davidson crew. I knew JoeB attended there and I had some peculiar sense about needing to meet the group.
What a surprise! As soon as I arrived Friday morning, I got the work location from Heather the village manager and located them about 8:30AM. I introduced myself to the team leader, the associate minister from Westminster PC. I knew she was a true trooper because as I looked up the steps of the house to the deck, there she stood with like the captain of a ship but with her very young infant daughter in her arms.
I introduced myself and mentioned Jodi and JoeB, my pastors at Northside in Chattanooga. She had this big, effusive smile and said,
“Jodi! She and I were classmates in seminary. I’m Kathy Beach-Verhey.”
After I finished talking with her about Jodi and Northside she asked if I knew Rachel Taylor!
‘Of course! Sometimes when I’m not singing in the choir I find myself sitting behind her.”
“Her daughter is in the other room.”
“Really?”
"Meet Linda Steber.”
Well Linda and I spent quite a few minutes talking about Rachel and how small the Presbyterian Church seems some times when these events happen. (I may have mentioned a few weeks ago that a daughter and son-in law of some Southwest Pennsylvania Presbyterian volunteers in Gulfport live in my old house in New Kensington, PA.)
Linda asked me if I knew Mary and Dennis Goodwin. I never had time to me to explain that when I sat behind Rachel it usually was also behind them.
It is written for us to be kind to strangers; one never knows when one is entertaining an angel. I’m not sure I believe in coincidences, only in mysterious ways.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Day 51 – Year A.K.E.
For most people in the Gulf coast, time does not exist before Katrina. Everything is measured in AKE, the “after Katrina Era.”
They measure their experience from their baptism, when faith and hope became more than just two words.
I was listening to a volunteer from South Carolina at lunch today. She told us that her group came down only a few weeks after Katrina. Their volunteer coordinator directed the group to a name and address to begin helping.
Well, it was pretty confusing then. The road signs were mostly gone, toppled trees and debris lay everywhere.
Eventually they found their way to the disheveled house. After a knock on the door, there was nothing but silence. After a minute or so, another knock. Nothing. They turned to go away concluding either they got the wrong address from the volunteer or the people weren’t home.
As they reached the first step, the front door opened and a man stood with the weary look of a person who has carried too great a burden for too long.
The group leader introduced himself and explained they were here to start helping the family clean up. The man’s eyes brightened.
“We have given up hope, it just doesn’t seem like we are ever going to get any help.”
The leader objected.
“Oh Mr. Bryan, no, we just got your name, that is why we are here. We are going to be the first crew who will eventually get you back into a new home.”
Mr. Bryan had a strange look, it seemed that his mouth was frozen in a frown but his cheeks were forcing the crack of a smile. Except there were tears in his eyes.
By this time his wife had come to the door and was holding onto the husband’s left arm.
We are the Doyles. The Bryan’s have the same address but they live on the next street over. You are at the wrong house. He said this haltingly with a broken voice. His wife whose face was expressionless, was squeezing his arm tightly as if would she let go her whole world might just spin right out of existence into the either.
“We are sorry, we did not mean to disturb you.”
“Oh you just do not know what you have done. We had given up and were sitting in our home looking at the moldy walls and the dirt. We had just made our pact, one of us was going to shoot the other and then turn the gun and end it for both of us. You saved our lives.”
You make a difference in everyone’s life when you volunteer your life to help someone. That difference, I think, in part has helped change people’s outlook here in Mississippi.
Now in year 3 A.K.E. , so many have rediscovered hope and can laugh again, even joking about their worst calamity as I saw on the rear fender of this Ford pickup in traffic yesterday afternoon…
They measure their experience from their baptism, when faith and hope became more than just two words.
I was listening to a volunteer from South Carolina at lunch today. She told us that her group came down only a few weeks after Katrina. Their volunteer coordinator directed the group to a name and address to begin helping.
Well, it was pretty confusing then. The road signs were mostly gone, toppled trees and debris lay everywhere.
Eventually they found their way to the disheveled house. After a knock on the door, there was nothing but silence. After a minute or so, another knock. Nothing. They turned to go away concluding either they got the wrong address from the volunteer or the people weren’t home.
As they reached the first step, the front door opened and a man stood with the weary look of a person who has carried too great a burden for too long.
The group leader introduced himself and explained they were here to start helping the family clean up. The man’s eyes brightened.
“We have given up hope, it just doesn’t seem like we are ever going to get any help.”
The leader objected.
“Oh Mr. Bryan, no, we just got your name, that is why we are here. We are going to be the first crew who will eventually get you back into a new home.”
Mr. Bryan had a strange look, it seemed that his mouth was frozen in a frown but his cheeks were forcing the crack of a smile. Except there were tears in his eyes.
By this time his wife had come to the door and was holding onto the husband’s left arm.
We are the Doyles. The Bryan’s have the same address but they live on the next street over. You are at the wrong house. He said this haltingly with a broken voice. His wife whose face was expressionless, was squeezing his arm tightly as if would she let go her whole world might just spin right out of existence into the either.
“We are sorry, we did not mean to disturb you.”
“Oh you just do not know what you have done. We had given up and were sitting in our home looking at the moldy walls and the dirt. We had just made our pact, one of us was going to shoot the other and then turn the gun and end it for both of us. You saved our lives.”
You make a difference in everyone’s life when you volunteer your life to help someone. That difference, I think, in part has helped change people’s outlook here in Mississippi.
Now in year 3 A.K.E. , so many have rediscovered hope and can laugh again, even joking about their worst calamity as I saw on the rear fender of this Ford pickup in traffic yesterday afternoon…
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