This came from a friend of mine, Charley Elgin, who is working in the Christus Victor Shelter in Ocean Springs. It was written by a volunteer there and she chronicles her experiences. It is pretty amazing.
September 18, 2005 10:17 p.m.
I’m sitting on my cot in the sanctuary of Christus Victor Lutheran Church in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. I thought I would have to sleep in my sleeping bag on the ground outside or on the floor of the church, so I’m grateful for the cot. Around me are sleeping other volunteers from various parts of the country, including a group of nurses from Kentucky. Kitchen workers from the Christian Appalachian Project relief organization are bedded down in yet another room. Late-nighters like me sit in pews to read a book or write in journals. The sanctuary floor is bare concrete as the building was flooded by Katrina, and the carpet had to be ripped out. But the room is air conditioned. There are two uni-sex showers available for the thirty or so volunteers to share. A row of tents line the small grassy area next to the parking lot. A youth group is here to help man the shelter and help in clean up of individual homes, and they are “roughing it.” Their accommodations look much like those used by many residents of this town, who are camping in their own yards. My small suitcase is sitting next to me on the kneeler, and I’m leaning against the altar rail. I feel a small startle when I realize what I am using to prop myself up on - it seems kind of sacrilegious at first. Then I decide that God is proud to have me use this rail for support as I contemplate my day and plan for those ahead. In fact, as I look around this small church, which has housed as many as 100 shelter residents and 30 volunteers, over the past two weeks, as I look at the total disarray of many of the rooms - this one housing the medical office, this one serving as a dining area, this one containing computers for use by shelter residents and volunteers - and papers, a multitude of papers everywhere - I decide that God is happy with how this building is being used. Much love is being dispensed here.
Yes, much love is being dispensed here, from volunteer to shelter resident, shelter resident to volunteer, and volunteer to volunteer. A nurse who has been here since Friday (it’s only Sunday now) has to think hard to remember what day it is. She says she has been working in barely- controlled chaos since she arrived, and she feels like she’s been here much longer than two days. She confides in me that I should not get my feelings hurt if one of the shelter residents speaks badly to me. She says they are angry, very angry, and the smallest perceived slight can set some of them off. Little things are blown out of proportion - like the FEMA bus arriving later than expected. After we talk she takes time to check a rash on one of the young volunteers. There is concern for the development of skin and respiratory problems among the volunteers who are working “in the field,” helping clean and “deconstruct” residents’ homes. At the nursing table, tetanus shots are dispensed for free to volunteers, shelter residents, and community members. The shelter director, Sonny, met with our little group an hour or so ago. He too cautions us about the level of anger among the shelter residents. He feels very protective of them, calls them, “my people,” and he says he checks and double checks information before he dispenses it, so as not to cause further damage. However, despite his best efforts, he can control neither the other agencies nor his own, and bureaucratic bungling causes further damage to the already depleted levels of trust the shelter residents feel toward “staff.”
Sonny is extremely frustrated with his lack of resources. He does not have enough volunteers to man the shelter, nor does he have adequate supplies. For example, he says that volunteers are helping to strip damaged homes of their moldy carpeting, drapes and drywall. Ideally anyone working at this task should be wearing a respirator mask; at a minimum they should utilize a disposable face mask. However he does not have respirators, and he runs out of face masks regularly. He also needs Neosporin to treat the many wounds sustained by residents as well as by those volunteers working in homes - but he has none. And having eye goggles seems like a dream.
Sonny shakes his head as I tell him that “back home” in Gainesville, those persons displaced by Katrina who arrive in town are given debit cards worth hundreds of dollar and are placed in hotel rooms for fourteen days at a time. Sonny has been the recipient of much anger on the part of shelter residents whom he directed to Red Cross tables set up here in Ocean Springs to dispense debit cards. Too many residents, after standing outside in the hot sun for hours, have been turned away - some multiple times - because there are only 500 cards to give out but up to 1000 persons in line. And he shakes his head as he talks about the cruise ship parked up the coast aways, off Biloxi. FEMA wants to start placing shelter residents in cabins on the cruise ship, and has promised them constant attention, luxurious staterooms - and massages!! Those shelter residents who are eligible (no pets allowed, no “special needs” persons allowed), rise up in disbelief that he would think anyone who lived through the wall of water propelled by Katrina would want to live on a cruise ship. Only three families accept the offer.
Sonny reports that he is technically not allowed to utilize volunteers who are not Red Cross-trained volunteers. However, given that he is housed in a church that has contact with numerous people from faith based organizations which wish to help, he has made use of anyone and everyone who has something to offer. He states that he sees himself as fighting a war, a war against Katrina. He will utilize whatever resources he needs in his efforts to win the battle, including “unauthorized” volunteers. Sonny gives me a hug as we part while I instruct him to prepare a list of those things he needs to efficiently run the shelter, work in the field, and protect his people, volunteers and residents alike. He is shocked when, after learning of his need for face masks, members of our group pick up the phone and call home with instructions to send cases of face masks via Federal Express. His eyes light up as he considers the possibilities.
The damage in Ocean Springs is great. When I arrived this afternoon I was surprised upon driving down Hwy 90 through Pascagoula, Gautier (pronounced, I learned, Goshay), and Ocean Springs. Although there are numerous buildings damaged by the storm and many trees felled, it appears that a high percentage of retail and food service establishments are already open for business, including such “necessary” enterprises as Lowe’s, WalMart, Burger King, McDonalds, and Kentucky Fried Chicken. (And I happily note the presence of a working Ruby Tuesday - I might need a glass of wine after a couple of days of this duty.) Every couple of blocks there are parking lots housing various disaster assistance sites. It hurts to see people wading through mounds - literal mounds - of clothing that are spread by the yard across parking lots. It looks as though clothing has been dumped from bags and boxes, with no order, no separation by sex or size. No racks of designer goods here. But people who need clothing are picking through the piles, and many have various items draped across their arms.
My initial thoughts are that the damage from this storm is not much worse than that which I saw in the Florida Panhandle after Ivan blew through. I soon learn that my first impression is wrong. Before checking in at the shelter I decide to drive around the area to survey the damage, feeling that if I am to work with persons who have been devastated by Katrina, I should know what the devastation looks like. The closer I drive toward the water, the worse is the landscape. I first pass areas in which piles of “natural debris” line the road - trees, bushes, and so one. Soon, however, I am driving through neighborhoods in which beautiful brick and concrete block homes are still standing - but their interiors have been stripped and the detritus piled at the edge of the road. There are piles as tall as the homes themselves of carpeting, drapes, ceiling tiles, wallboard, and personal possessions. Though the homes themselves may have remained standing, now they are only shells.
My trip down a beach road is an especially eerie drive. It has been reduced to one lane by the sand that washed up from the beach. On the beach side of the road, homes have been totally demolished. But not only are they totally demolished, the remains have been washed away. On most homesites. concrete pilings and perhaps a few vertical wood beams are the only evidence that there was ever a building on the lot. No furniture, no clothing, no personal possessions, all have been washed away. I am startled at one site to see a lone toilet sitting in what was once a bathroom. On another, a beautiful granite countertop lays on the concrete slab. On the north side of the road, backing up to a marsh and a bayou, I “discover” some of the personal possessions which had once lived in the homes on the beachside - clothes, bedclothes, and other strips of cloth hang from limbs of trees, waving in the breeze, shrouding the landscape. The scene looks like one of the sites I would view while riding through the haunted house at Disneyworld. Homes on this side of the road were also destroyed and washed away, but the abundance of trees backing up to the bayou collected an odd assorted of household goods. Cars rest askew in the mud.
This total destruction is peculiarly juxtaposed against an “ordinary” late evening Gulf landscape. Lazy waves lap up on the narrow spit of sand that remains between the concrete slabs and the water. Pelicans sit on pilings and survey the scene. And a large red sun begins setting against an aquamarine sky, shimmering gold and pink on the water. This is the reason the owners of these homes chose to build in this spot. I stop every now and then to photograph the scene - the lone toilet for example, the shrouded trees - and the beautiful sunset behind the skeletons that had once been living homes. I pass a couple who are walking among one set of pilings. Several lots beyond their site the road ends, and I stop my car to take additional photographs of the setting sun. The couple wanders my way, and the young man asks if I am “getting any good shots.” I am instantly embarrassed, feeling like a voyeur on the destruction of their life. But I learn that he is only wanting to start a conversation. He brought his own camera and has also been photographing the sunset, through the torn remains of an American flag.
I do not remember the name of the couple, I am too intent upon their story. But they talk of the home they had been renting with an option to buy, how they are now stuck in a double quagmire, as they did not technically own the home, but they were more than tenants. The young man explains that a tidal surge of thirty feet washed across the land, taking their home with it. They have been unable to find any but a handful of possessions. He believes most of his belongings are lodged in the bayou. He believes there are still some bodies in the bayou as well. He had been working in one of the casinos, so he is now unemployed. The couple spend their days trying to remain close to their lot so as not to miss the arrival of the FEMA inspectors - which precludes them from doing much else. They talk of the frustration of trying to obtain assistance just subsequent to the hurricane. Although food sites were set up around town, if one had a car, one needed gas as well as money to pay for gas in order to access the food. They now have food to eat, but they have no money to purchase personal care items. He indicated that (unnamed) organizations set up sites to provide assistance, but the sites move every couple of days. For those who do not have access to television, when they finally learn where such a a site is located, they arrive only to learn that it has been moved. . . . But the couple are grateful for what assistance they have had - he tears up as he talks of the clothing they have found in piles in parking lots, the $100 given him unexpectedly by a pastor. We part as the sun starts slipping below the horizon. As I drive back down the ghostly road, I watch them looking through bushes on the bayou side, looking in vain for anything that had once belonged to them. I had little to offer this couple. I can’t rebuild their home, don’t have money to give. But I was able to listen, to give them a chance to tell their story. And they seemed to want to do that.
Tomorrow will be our first “work day.” Some of us are scheduled to hand out boxes of food through the drive through food distribution center; some of us will accompany volunteers who take food and other items to neighborhoods where the hardy, independent folks continue to live among the remains of their homes. Now I will prepare my bed, snuggling inside my sleeping bag, thinking of the shelter residents in the room next door, who are sleeping on cots just like mine. The difference being that I will go home on Thursday to sleep in my queen sized bed with feather topping, while they will remain here, in limbo, their lives on hold.
September 19, 2005 7:24 a.m. Monday
I arise at 5:30 this morning, intent upon taking my morning shower before the line begins. Various appendages go numb throughout the night. Sleeping on a cot does not allow for much movement, and nerves become compressed against the frame. I sleep some, though fitfully. I imagine the longer I am here, the better I will sleep, as exhaustion sets in. I “make my bed”- which means that I straighten my sleeping bag on top of the cot. I must be feeling a need for some order.
I meet Lynda this morning. Lynda drives her car through the neighborhoods, stopping to see if residents who have chosen to stay among their destroyed homes are in need of food, personal care items, or such “medical supplies” as bandages, aspirin, and so on. She speaks fondly of families she has adopted, the stubborn, tough ones who refuse to move to shelters even though their homes are uninhabitable. She tries to locate special items - such as tents - that they might need. And she smiles as she talked of how God seems to supply just what she needs just as she needs it. We will accompany Linda on her rounds today. She indicates that much of her time is spent just listening, that folks need to tell their story, that folks need someone to listen. This seems to be a common theme. This is something I can do.
September 19, 2005 6:32 p.m.
I am tired, deep, deep tired. Cecil and I accompanied Lynda today, driving into the little town of D’Iberville to distribute food, cold drinks, cleaning supplies, and personal care items. Lynda has been doing this for the past two weeks. She has a civil service job at the local military base. Because the base sustained so much damage in the storm, she and most other staff were initially placed on administrative leave. She doesn’t know if the administrative leave has ended but says if it has, she’ll take leave without pay to continue her relief work through Christus Victor. Lynda’s home suffered damage from Katrina, but Lynda says it is fairly minor in the big scheme of things. She is so committed to this effort that she hasn’t even taken time to file her own insurance claim. The first neighborhood we enter is comprised primarily of older wood frame homes, one and two story. We pass through an occasional block of newer brick homes. The first homes we encounter look fairly intact on the outside. We stop at Billy’s home first when we see Billy outside surveying the damage. Billy lived in a one story wood frame house with a gabled roof as tall as the first floor, located many blocks from the bay. The water completely covered Billy’s house. He reports that the depth of the water in his area was measured at 32 feet. Thirty-two feet of the Gulf of Mexico covered this area! Billy gladly accepts some cold drinks and cleaning supplies. The shell of his home is standing, but the inside is totally destroyed. We chat a bit with Billy as we give him paper towels and a portable grill. Mostly we listen to him talk about where he was when Katrina hit and what damage his neighborhood suffered.
Just up the block from Billy are several newer, small brick homes. We encounter a young woman in her yard with a hose and a brush, scrubbing a large urn. Her two daughters, elementary and middle school aged, sit on the front steps with her sister, watching her work. It is hot outside, already in the low 90's, and the foursome are sweating. Once again, the shell of this house is standing, but the inside has been gutted. We offer cold sodas but the girls ask for juice instead. We dispense bleach and gloves, paper towels and plastic bags. They ask for leather cleaner, but we have none. The young woman who owns the home reports that she purchased leather living room furniture for $2,000 less than one month ago. The furniture has been destroyed. Although she purchased a warranty with the furniture, the store manager will not honor the warranty as the damage is from “an act of God.” She is angry and declares that she will not make the rest of the payments. I wonder if she has insurance, but I refrain from asking. Once again we listen. The adult sisters report that they evacuated this storm, otherwise they would probably be dead. With no emotion in her voice, the woman who owns the home slips in, “But we lost our dad.” She does not elaborate, so I do not ask any questions. The focus of her emotion is primarily on the destroyed furniture. Perhaps it’s easier to deal with her anger about the furniture. She can blame the store manager for not replacing the furniture. It’s a lot harder to blame God. We drive away from this house noting the smile upon the younger daughter’s face as she clutches the small stuffed animal we gave her.
As we drive closer to the bay, the damage to the homes we encounter becomes more extensive. We pass blocks that are covered with lumber, felled trees, household goods. On some blocks there is no definable structure left standing, just piles of lumber and rubble. On one long block of older wood frame homes, we encounter Mrs. Fontenot, her son and great granddaughter outside Mrs. Fontenot’s home. The insurance adjustor is inside surveying the damage. Mrs. Fontenot is wearing shorts which expose long scars from previous surgery on both knees. Her feet are swollen and red. She is flushed and does not look well. When we pass out cold drinks she asks for a diet soda, but we have none. Although she is diabetic, she drinks a sugared soft drink anyway and reports that it is one of the best things she’s had to drink in weeks. She announces that she doesn’t think she can eat another meal from a can. She desperately wants fresh vegetables. We tell the family of the shelter at Christus Victor and urge them to join us for dinner tonight. I can see that they are seriously considering it. We pass out our meager supplies, bleach and leather gloves, Neosporin. The granddaughter is thrilled when she learns that we have feminine hygiene supplies, and we give her several boxes. While her son is occupied with a cell phone call, Mrs. Fontenot asks me in a whisper if we have any Depends in the back of the truck. We do not. I feel bad. Imagine how it must feel asking strangers for these items.
We remain at this home for about forty-five minutes. It is hot outside and we find some shade and a spot where Mrs. Fontenot can sit down as she talks. We note the new growth on the pecan trees in the yard. Amid the adult leaves that were killed by the salt water we note the light green of new leaves growing up and down the trunk, across the branches. It has only been two weeks since the storm, and several inches of new growth has appeared. It is a hopeful sight. Mrs. Fontenot reports that she lost her diabetes test kit in the storm. We call back to the church and have one placed aside with her name on it. She promises that she will come by and pick it up late today. We listen as Mrs. Fontenot talks of the damage done to her home by Hurricane Camille, by two cars which struck the house, and now by Katrina. Tears well up in her tired eyes and she announces that she “can’t do this any more.” Though I don’t know for sure if she’s thinking about alternatives, I suspect that her statement is merely a protest, “I can’t do this any more, God! I can’t do this any more. . . please.” Then the insurance adjustor exits the home, and we leave the family to hear his pronouncement.
We drive slowly down street after street, occasionally passing out cold drinks to workmen who are “deconstructing homes.” At one stop we apply Neosporin and a bandage to a cut finger. We talk with a gentleman whose boat is now stuck in his tree. The boat is not damaged, and he’s trying to figure out how to get it out of the tree. Across the street his neighbor’s house is sitting several yards away from its front steps. Strings of brightly colored bunting flutter in his trees; he has no idea where the bunting came from. His shed is missing, though the cable that was in the shed is still sitting on the slab. In his back yard is a persimmon tree that is loaded with ripe fruit. I gaze in amazement, wondering how the fruit managed to withstand a force that knocked houses off their foundation, that moved boats into trees.
We drive into upper middle class neighborhoods of two story brick homes. Some homes have sustained roof damage, occasionally a gable has torn off. All the homes have one thing in common: they are uninhabitable, have lost their contents, due to water that rose past the first floor into the second. At one home we dispense large trash bags, bleach, and socks to a woman who is an elementary school teacher. Again we listen. She tells us that she and her husband have been told that they will be moved to the top of the list for placement in a FEMA-supplied mobile home because they are teachers and are needed back at work so schools can open. She laughs as she describes her new life, “From golf course community to trailer park!” She talks happily about the many items in her kitchen which survived the damage when her refrigerator became lodged against some cabinets, protecting their contents. She has only been married four years, and she is pleased that her china is intact. She reports that FEMA is condemning any home that sustained roof damage along with the damage from the rising water. She is happy because her roof was not damaged and she has flood insurance; thus, she believes that she and her husband will be able to rebuild. I do not tell her of the reports I am hearing that insurance companies are refusing to pay for damage due to Katrina’s waters, calling it “wind-borne water” as opposed to a flood. These homes are approximately one mile from the Bay, and water rose to the second floor of these homes. Wind-borne water?
We continue our rounds of this neighborhood. At one home we chat briefly with an older woman whose possessions are piled higher than our heads in her front yard. She tears up throughout the conversation. She describes the difficulty she and her husband have had with the task of cleaning up of their home. She is grateful for the crew from a church who stopped to ask directions to a home they were planning to help clean. When they found the home empty, they returned to her home and assisted her and her husband with their efforts. She states that “church folks” have been much more help these past couple of weeks than have any “officials.” As she thanks us for the paper towels and bleach we give her, she states with tears in her eyes, “I know it’s as hard on all of you who are helping as it is on us.” I thank her for the thought while assuring her that in no way is it as hard on me. In no way.
And oddly, I feel my first tears of the day as we round the corner and I see two houses with identical signs spray painted on their walls, “Safe.” “Safe.”
It has been an emotional morning. Lynda reports that she can only do this so long then must work at a different task. I am not emotionally tired (I think), but the heat and humidity as well as lack of sleep have me feeling physically tired, so we head back to the church. It is 100 degrees outside. Cecil and I stock his van with supplies and plan our route to Biloxi for tomorrow morning. We ride around the Ocean Springs area passing out cold water then return to the church yet again. I am pleased to see that Mrs. Fontenot and her son have arrived to pick up the glucose monitor. I locate one and give it to them and we chat a few minutes. Mrs. Fontenot announces that she will never purchase home owners insurance again. Her insurance adjustor notified her after we left this morning that she is not eligible for insurance reimbursement for damage to her home. He stated that, because her roof was not damaged, the damage was caused by a flood, therefore making her ineligible for reimbursement as she does not have flood insurance. Mrs. Fontenot and her son decide to stay for dinner. While waiting for the meal to be served they ask if we have any tarps they can have. I supply them with tarps as well as two large packages of Depends. Mrs. Fontenot thanks me with a smile and a hug.
I am tired, deep, deep tired. I arose at 5:00 yesterday as well as today, and I’m fighting a cold. It’s time to go to bed; there is much work for tomorrow. As I review the day, I decide that the emotion I feel is satisfaction. Yes, the day has been satisfying.
September 20, 2005 7:03 p.m.
I am less tired today. I think I passed out on my cot at 8:00 last night. Once again I arise at 5:00 this morning, to grab a first shower. As I scrub, I mull the many jobs that are being accomplished by volunteers who are working out of this church. I realize that I have seriously underestimated the number of volunteers, and I speculate on how large is the water heater . . . I will continue to get up in time to grab first shower. Breakfast this morning is french toast and waffles. Indeed, I have eaten better these past two days than I normally eat at home. Meals are diverse and portions are plentiful. We have had meatloaf, ziti, tacos, salisbury steak, chilimac, salads, vegetables, bread, desserts. Breakfast yesterday was particularly satisfying: spicy eggs scrambled with fresh onions, ham, grits, and biscuits. Coffee and tea are plentiful at all hours and snack foods are available on tables in the dining room - for shelter residents as well as volunteers - twenty-four hours a day. Mealtimes find tables crowded with an amalgam of shelter residents, volunteers from around the country, and residents from the area who come for meals but do not stay in the shelter. There are no divisions by class, by color, by religion, by money. Sometimes disaster has positive after-effects; we are all one, for now at least.
Cecil and I return to D’Iberville without Lynda, today, as she and the other members of Christus Victor are attending a funeral. We take Jack along with us this trip. A hardware store has donated large plastic containers full of face masks, scrub brushes, rubber and leather gloves, and cleansers, multiple cleansers. We fit as many containers as we can among the other items in the van. These will go fast. Seven semi tractor trailer rigs arrived last night packed full of bagged ice. Shelter and volunteer managers shook their head, not understanding why they were sent such a load unannounced. They turned away most of the ice. What is left still cannot be distributed in time, and much of it will melt. Consternation is expressed repeatedly over the lack of coordination - at higher levels - of the relief effort. Today volunteers are urged to take as much ice with them as they can when they make their rounds of the neighborhoods. We pack in an extra coolerfull of ice. And today I add packages of Depends to our cache.
We stop to give cold drinks and cleaning supplies to a man who is sitting outside his destroyed home, a wood frame that has been moved from its foundation and suffered structural damage. The contents have been destroyed by the water (be it flood or wind-borne). As we chat, his wife and eighteen year old daughter arrive. We talk about the storm, rather they talk and we listen. The family evacuated before Katrina arrived, so all are safe. However, they have lost most of the contents of their home. They are living in a borrowed travel trailer. Today is only the second day they have been able to pick through the remains of their home; prior to yesterday, the mud was so thick around the home that they could not wade through it to reach the entrance. Fatigue shows in their faces, and they report that they have been unable to think, to plan what they’ll do next. But they are grateful for our visit and thank us repeatedly. The mother stands by the door to the van and continues to talk even as we prepare to leave. She persists in expressing her concern for the family’s future, so I tell her of the space available in Gainesville for families who wish to relocate. With thanks she declines. Then she tells us the rest of their story. She tells us that her teenage son killed himself three years ago. She is quietly distraught as she tells us that the only “reminder” of her son that she has been able to salvage is his baseball. All photographs were destroyed. She will not leave this area because her daughter plans to stay. She cannot leave her only surviving child. I get out of the van and give her a hug, a tight hug. It’s all I have to give. I feel inadequate. But at least I can give her a hug, from my heart.
We pass out cleaning supplies and cold drinks at various sites. When we stop to ask the utility repairman if he would like a cold drink, we end up listening to his story. He, too, has suffered major damage to his home, but he must continue to work, as the community needs to have power restored. We give him a container of cleaning supplies as well as some ice. There is a smile on his face as he waves good-bye. Just up the street we stop at a home where we see a husband and wife cleaning containers in their driveway. Their clothes are covered in mud, and the sweat pours from their faces. They smile in pleased amazement when we open the van to display the supplies we have to offer. They gladly accept bleach and a container of cleaning supplies. I bag paper towels and plastic bags, towels, shampoo, and soap. But they are most happy with the large packages of toilet paper we give them. They have been using paper towels. As they thank us, she says she would hug us if she weren’t so dirty. We hug her anyway. As we leave the neighborhood to return to Christus Victor, we note another sign spray painted on a house, “Pray hard.”
I am scheduled to meet at 2:30 with Karen Olson, the woman who founded Interfaith Hospitality Network. However I receive a message that Karen has hurt her back and has been unable to fly to Mississippi. So I spend some time talking with people in the shelter. I check in with Betty, whom I met as she awaited a ride to the post office yesterday. Betty has physical handicaps and uses a walker. She came to Ocean Springs after sending a $200 deposit to the owner of a mobile home she wished to rent. She arrived to discover that the man had rented the mobile home to someone else; he kept her $200 deposit. Having nowhere to go, Betty had to move into the shelter. She is pleased that she is on the waiting list for a FEMA trailer. But she is worried about her daughter. The last Betty knew, her daughter was in the convention center in New Orleans. Betty does not know where she is now. Her daughter is not well; she has cancer. Betty is worried about her. I cannot imagine having a physical impairment and being alone in a shelter in a strange town while worrying about my daughter who has cancer who is missing. Betty and I chat a few minutes. Her spirits are good. She hugs me as I leave.
Each morning as I brush my teeth, I have chatted with an elderly woman, another early riser, who is living in shelter together with her husband. The couple appear to be in their 80's, and she is slight and frail. The shell of her home has been left standing, though the inside must be stripped to make it habitable. I try to imagine attempting to rebuild my home at an age when I am physically incapable of performing the task. The couple leave shelter each day to work at their home, returning each evening looking very tired. Tonight her hair is wet with sweat, and she looks weary; but she is sporting a smile as she describes the team of eight, young and old, who arrived at her house today to help with the clean up efforts. I see hope in her eyes.
I hear my name called and turn to find that Mrs. Fontenot has returned for dinner a second night, accompanied by her son. Mrs. Fontenot greets Cecil and me with a hug. She looks so much better than she did when we first met her yesterday. Her son reports that she will probably be back for dinner each night, that she likes this place. He tells us that Mrs. Fontenot brought with her tonight some clothes and personal care items she has been given by others which she cannot use. She thought someone else might want them. Her home was destroyed. She has been devastated. But she is giving to others. We hug again as she leaves.
Sonny has been trying to find shelter residents for us to talk with, persons who might wish to relocate to Gainesville. He introduced us to one woman last evening who confided, as he departed, that she has no desire to move to Gainesville. She did not wish to hurt Sonny’s feelings by telling him so, so she humored him by meeting with us. She reported that she plans to move to the Florida Panhandle to live with an old friend who has offered her his spare bedroom. Another couple who was introduced to us by Sonny, in hopes that they would like to relocate to Florida, report that they plan to move to Arkansas, a state they believe to be “safe.” Persons in our group who have lived in Arkansas refrain from telling them of the frequent tornados that barrel through that state.
I ponder this issue as I drive down to the water again, past brass headboards nestled in the sand, afghans hanging from trees, a purse swaying in the breeze. I walk on the beach along Belle Fountain Drive and think of the issue of pain and suffering. Though the young couple believes Arkansas is the place to live, I’m not sure we’re safe anywhere from these “acts of God,” or, as I prefer to state, the effects of natural law. Alaska has avalanches; California has earthquakes; Arkansas and much of the midwest have tornados; The Atlantic and Gulf Coasts have hurricanes. (Oddly, some include automobile accidents and plane crashes in the category of “acts of God,” some don’t -?) I think back over the last two days, our conversations with those who have survived Katrina. We’ve heard much about God during our conversations the last two days. Some blame God for Katrina, though they do so without rancor. Some believe that God purposefully visited Katrina on these three states, as a message to mankind in general. Some believe God did not specifically cause Katrina to hit this area at this time - but that he allowed it to happen, for a reason. Most are thankful for what they do have, their health, more importantly, their life. And most talk of being better people, of having a closer relationship with God after having survived this monstrous storm. I personally believe God set Nature into motion, and the results of Nature’s actions include destructive hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes - and suffering. But the results of Nature’s actions also include sunsets, gentle rainfalls, flowing rivers - and joy. While I don’t pretend to understand the Big Picture, why it was created as it is, I know that it includes man helping man through the suffering, distributing cold drinks, cleaning supplies, toilet paper, and hugs. And I will start all over again tomorrow.
September 21, 2005
I need to leave today, a day earlier than I had planned. That fact makes me sad. But it is the only wise thing to do. I have lost the battle with my cold germs. My cold is bad enough that I am afraid of spreading my germs throughout the shelter. There are a number of elderly and special needs persons in shelter, including some with lung problems. The last thing they need now is to get sick. And I don’t feel well enough to brave the 100+ degree temperatures to make the rounds of individual homes. I can’t do any good anywhere if I get sicker. So I prepare to leave.
This place feels like home. I wander around the building, inside and outside, taking photographs to document this special place. Christus Victor is not a large church. The congregation consists of approximately 500 persons. But this building is housing a tremendous relief effort. Unlike most disaster shelters, which only house and feed displaced persons, this church is hosting a cooperative effort of a number of agencies and programs. As I said earlier, much love is being dispensed here. Red Cross staff and volunteers check in residents at a table in the narthex by the front door. The doors are open and the table staffed twenty-four hours a day. One hundred persons can be housed. Since I’ve been here, the shelter has been at capacity, and some persons who have sought shelter have been sent to other sites. This is a pet-friendly shelter. The fenced-in children’s playground at the side of the building has been turned into a kennel. Tarps have been erected across the playground equipment to provide some shade for our four-legged friends. More than half a dozen dogs and puppies gambol among the bushes and trees, barking for attention as I stroll by. I am told that some birds are even housed in a back room.
A medical clinic takes up much of the narthex and two adjoining rooms. Nurses from the Northern Kentucky Independent Health District and two volunteer physicians staff the clinic. The clinic is open for free to shelter residents, volunteers, and community members. Prescriptions are refilled, rashes tended, cuts bandaged, and tetanus vaccinations given, with medical screening available twenty-four hours/day. Additionally, teams of nurses as well as physicians make home visits to tend to those persons who do not wish to move into the shelter. Two nights ago a man with mental health problems arrived at the church around 11:00 p.m. He had not had his medications in almost two weeks, since Katrina blew through, and he was visibly agitated. He was seen by a nurse who had a police officer transport him to the local hospital for further care. I settle myself into one of the chairs in this makeshift “waiting room.” Next to me is a man who is carrying bottles of pills in a ziploc bag. He tells the nurse that he needs his prescriptions refilled. A young couple from the community arrive to have the cut on his leg examined. They are concerned that he might need stitches. When my turn arrives, I tell the doctor that I normally don’t take antibiotics for colds, which I know are caused by viruses. But I am concerned about exposure to any “odd” bacteria and viruses, diseases that may be cropping up because of the sanitation problems in the area. (I recall the pond of raw sewage I drove around on my way to the beach area yesterday.) She believes that a round of broad spectrum antibiotics is in order, and she send the nurse to the medication room to get a bottle of Cipro. She explains that the supplies for the clinic have all been donated, including some very good, very expensive medication. We chat as we wait. Dr. Morris is a neurosurgeon who had planned to spend the month of September preparing for a move from Indiana to Arizona, where she will be a professor at a university. Instead of spending her month packing, preparing for a new life, she is working at this clinic instead.
Upon leaving the clinic, I wander into the church Fellowship Hall, which has been divided into two rooms. The dining room lies off the kitchen, which is now serving hundreds of meals three times/day. On the other side of the divider is a room which, over the three days, has been stacked high at times with food, personal care items, first aid items, and other household goods. On a normal day, trucks arrive several times/day with hundreds of boxes which must then be unpacked and sorted. There have been up to six persons at a time sharing the unpacking duties. Just outside the back doors, another group of volunteers packs boxes with food that can supply a family with meals for several days. These food boxes are stacked in the back parking lot next to boxes of personal care items, papergoods, cleaning supplies and miscellaneous household goods. There is a steady stream of cars and trucks coming through this “drive through” to pick up food and other necessities. Beside them volunteers are packing trucks and vans full of these same supplies, readying themselves for their trips into the community to distribute them. Today the tables in the distribution room are fairly empty. I am told that delivery trucks have been placed on hold until there is further information about the projected path of Hurricane Rita. . . I can’t imagine these folks living through another hurricane. Yesterday there was a meeting of the lead persons for all the volunteer groups, to discuss the possibility that Rita could head this direction. If such is the case, the Red Cross will move shelter residents to a safer area. We were instructed to keep an eye on the hurricane and to plan our trips home accordingly. I feel guilty that I can return home.
I head back to the narthex to say my good-byes to Charlie. Charlie Elgin initially arrived in Ocean Springs just days after Katrina. Expecting to work as a Red Cross volunteer in an established shelter, he arrived to find that the shelter had not been set up. Though he had not assembled a shelter operation before, he was given approximately six hours to do so. And he did. The thought that has gone into this operation amazes me. From the room full of computers for general use, to the distribution room, the heavy-duty copy machine, to the bathrooms stacked high with soaps and cleansers and other sanitary items, it appears that much thought has gone into making this facility as comfortable and as useful and user-friendly as possible. When Sonny arrived to run the Red Cross operations, Charley stayed on, but in a different capacity. Now he is in charge of coordinating the efforts of the many volunteers who wish to come to this community to help. Charley is a member of the Military Missions Network, a “network of churches, chaplains, and para-church ministries fulfilling the Great Commandment and the Great Commission by linking together to reach, equip, and minister to military members and families.” A soft-spoken man, Charley is exceedingly organized, a necessary trait for one who must maintain order amid the comings and goings of so many volunteers, shelter residents and community members who have been affected by Katrina. Today Charley is wearing a shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Lutheran Disaster Response network, which is operated under the auspices of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and the Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod. The LDR is working together with the Episcopal Church in Mississippi to provide support for the operation of the disaster response from this congregation, and some volunteers sport name tags identifying them as members of the Lutheran-Episcopal Disaster Response Team.
I hug Charley good-bye as I promise him that I will share with my little part of the world the needs of this devastated community. I think of the many volunteers I’ve met these past few days, from Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Arkansas, New York, and Maryland. I mull over the interfaith aspect of this operation - from the multi-faith Medical Missionary Network and Christian Appalachian Project members, to the Lutheran-Episcopal Disaster Response Team, to the Presbyterians, Methodists, and Baptists in my little team from Interfaith Hospitality Network, to the many unidentified volunteers - all are giving of themselves to help people who have truly “lost everything” - at least in the sense of material possessions. It is stirring. I marvel that a church has allowed its building to be so completely consumed by this large disaster relief operation. No one spends time worrying about the stains on the carpet or the beds in the sanctuary, the dogs in the playground or the gas tanks in the parking lot. This church is indeed loving its neighbor.
I drive east on Highway 90, past hand-made signs proclaiming, “Thank you relief workers,” and, in Pascagoula, “Welcome back shipbuilders.” I wonder if I will be back. I have a full-time job to return to at home. There are families with children in Gainesville who have also “lost everything.” Their losses are not as public, but their needs are as great. It has been different working in Mississippi. At home I am consumed by such tasks as fund-raising, grant-writing, and publicity, the constant concern about having enough money to operate IHN. In Mississippi I had no such concerns. I was able to give my full attention to the needs of the people I was with. And while I could not meet all their needs, I was able to meet, in a minor way, their need for human compassion, their need for human touch, their need for a listening ear, for a hug. I was fully present in Mississippi, not thinking about home, not worrying about tomorrow. I realize with tears in my eyes, that what I did, for these few days, was necessary, was important; and I feel that it will have an ongoing affect upon me. I don’t know how, but it will. It was good. It was right.
Donna
