"I never asked God, why, Jennifer. I never did. But if I would have, I think he would have answered me with this little block party and all of y'all... He would have said, 'This is why, Betty.'"
Maybe it is that I'm not as strong of a woman as Mrs. Betty M. of 29 Packenham Avenue, Chalmette Louisiana, because I have asked God why he would allow such tragedy in New Orleans and the Gulf area over and over again for the past six months. How could a God of love let a hurricane and flood completely ruin so many lives? How could a God of compassion make thousands homeless with one storm? Why did God let Hurricane Katrina destroy families and homes and memories and futures? And maybe I haven't discovered the full answer, but I feel much closer after living among the victims for a week, experiencing life in a community which should have been lifeless.
We took a wrong turn, or maybe a right turn, as it turns out, placing our caravan of white Caravans smack in the middle of the 9th Ward, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana. It was about 9:30 at night and we were lost in the hardest hit area in New Orleans. After a hurricane wipes out large portions of a city, by the way, there are no street lights, street signs, road signs, or stop lights. I learned that people deal with shock in many different ways-- some ignore it, some cry over it, some vocalize it, some just turn up the radio. For me, I wept. I watched block after block pass by my back seat van window and each block seemed more desolate and destroyed than the next. Abandoned cars, 100- year-old trees splicing houses in two, cars under houses, houses on houses, missing ATM machines, obviously looted stores and businesses, debris everywhere. And the eeriest part? There were no people. Actually, I saw one man. He was walking the opposite direction we were driving, and for good reason. A city without people isn’t really a city. Where did the city of New Orleans go? Our home for the next week would be in the 8th Ward of St. Bernard Parish, the bottom of the basin formed by levees.
"God, I don't see you here. But you are, right?" I thought to myself repeatedly through the week of de-mucking houses. Our task was to completely gut houses which had not been opened for about six months-- houses which had been flooded up to 15 feet for four to six weeks. These homes were rank. Mold and mildew covered everything. "Katrina juice," as it came to be known, was still in anything that could hold water, like coffee pots and casserole dished and glasses (precariously leaned against the inside of cabinet doors, only to come splashing on the unsuspecting person's face who first opened the cabinet). The kitchens were in the living rooms and the living rooms were in the bedrooms. De-mucking a house took about six hours with our teams of twenty students. Some days we even completed two houses. At the end of the day the trash pile, which was actually a pile of what people used to call their "lives," was bigger than the house and spilled into the street. Only the studs and exterior walls remained.
We worked mainly on one street, Packenham Avenue. Requests began to flood in (no pun intended) from neighbors and family members who heard of the respectful nature our teams displayed while gutting houses. So, we were good at getting rid of trash? Interesting. We met most of the owners of the houses we cleared. We asked them to come help us, if they wished, and at least come for prayer. We prayed before we began for peace and safety, and afterwards for restoration and blessing. Everyone we worked with wished to pray with us, so we did. But those weren't the only prayers I offered. I talked with God a lot while I carried arm-fulls of Mardi Gras beads and saturated photo albums to the curb, and wept in anger to Him as I smashed my hammer through molded sheetrock. "Where are you and why didn't you come sooner to Packenham, God? Richie and Betty created 41 years of memories here, but you allowed one storm to take them away? Why, Father?"
But He was there. He was there loudly and boldly. He was at the crawfish boil and at the fried chicken block party. He was in each home and neighborhood. He was on the roof with the families, waiting for days to be rescued. He was with John and his dad as they fished out families with their trolling-motor boat. He was there when the families came back and discovered that flood waters can wash away life. He was there as we discovered soaked wedding albums and heirlooms under dressers, somehow preserved. He never left. And he was weeping, too. And He will stay there with each rebuilding and relocation. He is a God of restoration and He is a God that does not fail. I learned these truths in a new way in New Orleans.
I don't know why God uses a horrible storm like Katrina to glorify Himself, but he does. I saw it. I saw the loving God that I know bring joy again into people's lives. And He didn't need to use anything but Himself. I think I might have been given a glimpse of what the kingdom of heaven on earth is supposed to look like, as strange as it may seem, amidst the storm-torn community of Packenham Avenue. On that street and through my work, my only joy was God, and He was all I could think about. Hope-filled laughter and thankful smiles were plentiful, and people were in the process of restoration. We prayed a lot. We shared pain and wept willingly. We listened to each other's stories because they taught us truth. We were thankful for our lives. And maybe just for moments, our neighbors had no needs. He was exalted and glorified. The food was fried and we got to eat with our hands. Heaven indeed.
Maybe it is that I'm not as strong of a woman as Mrs. Betty M. of 29 Packenham Avenue, Chalmette Louisiana, because I have asked God why he would allow such tragedy in New Orleans and the Gulf area over and over again for the past six months. How could a God of love let a hurricane and flood completely ruin so many lives? How could a God of compassion make thousands homeless with one storm? Why did God let Hurricane Katrina destroy families and homes and memories and futures? And maybe I haven't discovered the full answer, but I feel much closer after living among the victims for a week, experiencing life in a community which should have been lifeless.
We took a wrong turn, or maybe a right turn, as it turns out, placing our caravan of white Caravans smack in the middle of the 9th Ward, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana. It was about 9:30 at night and we were lost in the hardest hit area in New Orleans. After a hurricane wipes out large portions of a city, by the way, there are no street lights, street signs, road signs, or stop lights. I learned that people deal with shock in many different ways-- some ignore it, some cry over it, some vocalize it, some just turn up the radio. For me, I wept. I watched block after block pass by my back seat van window and each block seemed more desolate and destroyed than the next. Abandoned cars, 100- year-old trees splicing houses in two, cars under houses, houses on houses, missing ATM machines, obviously looted stores and businesses, debris everywhere. And the eeriest part? There were no people. Actually, I saw one man. He was walking the opposite direction we were driving, and for good reason. A city without people isn’t really a city. Where did the city of New Orleans go? Our home for the next week would be in the 8th Ward of St. Bernard Parish, the bottom of the basin formed by levees.
"God, I don't see you here. But you are, right?" I thought to myself repeatedly through the week of de-mucking houses. Our task was to completely gut houses which had not been opened for about six months-- houses which had been flooded up to 15 feet for four to six weeks. These homes were rank. Mold and mildew covered everything. "Katrina juice," as it came to be known, was still in anything that could hold water, like coffee pots and casserole dished and glasses (precariously leaned against the inside of cabinet doors, only to come splashing on the unsuspecting person's face who first opened the cabinet). The kitchens were in the living rooms and the living rooms were in the bedrooms. De-mucking a house took about six hours with our teams of twenty students. Some days we even completed two houses. At the end of the day the trash pile, which was actually a pile of what people used to call their "lives," was bigger than the house and spilled into the street. Only the studs and exterior walls remained.
We worked mainly on one street, Packenham Avenue. Requests began to flood in (no pun intended) from neighbors and family members who heard of the respectful nature our teams displayed while gutting houses. So, we were good at getting rid of trash? Interesting. We met most of the owners of the houses we cleared. We asked them to come help us, if they wished, and at least come for prayer. We prayed before we began for peace and safety, and afterwards for restoration and blessing. Everyone we worked with wished to pray with us, so we did. But those weren't the only prayers I offered. I talked with God a lot while I carried arm-fulls of Mardi Gras beads and saturated photo albums to the curb, and wept in anger to Him as I smashed my hammer through molded sheetrock. "Where are you and why didn't you come sooner to Packenham, God? Richie and Betty created 41 years of memories here, but you allowed one storm to take them away? Why, Father?"
But He was there. He was there loudly and boldly. He was at the crawfish boil and at the fried chicken block party. He was in each home and neighborhood. He was on the roof with the families, waiting for days to be rescued. He was with John and his dad as they fished out families with their trolling-motor boat. He was there when the families came back and discovered that flood waters can wash away life. He was there as we discovered soaked wedding albums and heirlooms under dressers, somehow preserved. He never left. And he was weeping, too. And He will stay there with each rebuilding and relocation. He is a God of restoration and He is a God that does not fail. I learned these truths in a new way in New Orleans.
I don't know why God uses a horrible storm like Katrina to glorify Himself, but he does. I saw it. I saw the loving God that I know bring joy again into people's lives. And He didn't need to use anything but Himself. I think I might have been given a glimpse of what the kingdom of heaven on earth is supposed to look like, as strange as it may seem, amidst the storm-torn community of Packenham Avenue. On that street and through my work, my only joy was God, and He was all I could think about. Hope-filled laughter and thankful smiles were plentiful, and people were in the process of restoration. We prayed a lot. We shared pain and wept willingly. We listened to each other's stories because they taught us truth. We were thankful for our lives. And maybe just for moments, our neighbors had no needs. He was exalted and glorified. The food was fried and we got to eat with our hands. Heaven indeed.
