Being the hands and feet when waters rise

Flood waters rose in Southeast Texas almost two weeks ago. If, like me, you’ve never stepped foot in a flooded home, then let me tell you what you don’t know. First, wear old, rubber shoes. You’re going to throw the disgusting things away when you leave. Second, I have one word for you–mask. As in, cover the nose and mouth. The smell combined with the dust will make you want to run away. Last, wear glasses,  even if, like me, all you have are sunglasses, or like my friend,Vanissa, reading glasses. Old, wet sheetrock dust burns your eyes. Wear some clothes you won’t mind depositing in the trash, and you’re all set.

I sound like I’m complaining, and I’ll be honest, my back is killing me. My feet hurt. My aches ache. But I’m smiling, and I can’t seem to quit. In the midst of a really tough couple of weeks, I got to see hope, faith, and love in action every single day.

There were disagreements, yes. There was out and out arguing, yes. There was worry-there still is. There was fear-there still is. You don’t lose everything you’ve ever worked for, get some help, and wake up the next day with all the world right again. We have close friends who need homes. We have family members who need cars. People in our towns are being fed and clothed through donations. Just because we spent a week, a day, or a few hours helping, doesn’t mean the work is done.

This storm, this time, many of us go back to work tomorrow. Our days return to a routine. And for so many more in our community, they also return to work or school tomorrow. But after, they go back to a temporary bed and a home in need of repair. 

We can’t stop. We’re tired, but they’re more tired. So, be ready. Do the hard thing.

Preaching to myself. 

Go. Just show up. Be the hands and feet of Jesus.

When waters rise, homes flood, and the weary grow stronger

This has been the strangest week, and it’s still just Thursday. In Southeast Texas, we’re in the recovery phase of Hurricane Harvey, or what became subtropical storm Harvey. The rivers, creeks, and bayous broke records as they rose as much as ten feet or more above the last record. More than thirty thousand people in my small corner of Texas are displaced, and that number is kind. The largest city near me, a town of more than one hundred thousand, is limping on a temporary water supply and has been for over a week, and there isn’t a correction date in sight. Every city within a fifty mile radius of my home suffered unprecedented flooding (and that might actually be a one hundred mile radius.) Everyone I know personally within this questionable radius either flooded or personally knows someone who flooded. 

You may think I’m exaggerating. You’re wrong. I know more than twenty-five families who lost almost all of their personal possessions in less than two days. Because you may not comprehend this, I’ll clarify. Staggering totals of six to eight feet or more of water in your personal residence drowns your possessions. 

It’s late now, and I’m weary to the bone. We’ve packed off the personal belongings of two families this past week. Storage facilities in space sizes of ten by fifteen run one hundred and seventeen dollars a month-and that’s before insurance and locks. Oh, and most families need at least two spaces. Pots and pans, blankets, clothing, hobbies, and memorabilia can be packed in a box, labeled, and stored without any idea of when anyone may see them again. 

Room controlled storage–the newest catch phrase: Stuff kept at temperature control. Except when the sliding doors open every few minutes to allow yet another flood victim to unload.
So, after this past week of watching others lose their homes and helping others pack what’s left, I’ve come to some conclusiins.

First, we have too much stuff. Second, we worry a lot about keeping stuff–just in case. Third, we have a lot of stuff that can be left by the road when the stuffs usefulness is gone. Fourth, we can strangely covet other people’s stuff left by the side of the road. Fifth, we are more than our stuff.

I’ve watched good people come together this past week to help one another tear down, pack up, and rebuild. I’ve watched good people butt heads over the coming together, tearing down and rebuilding, and they still come out okay on the other side. I’ve watched the broken healed, and I’ve watched the hardened break down. I’ve watched full pour into empty in ways that have nothing to do with water. 

I’ve also seen the negative this past week, and sometimes I’ve spoken in the negative. But this week, I’ve seen the good outweigh the bad far more often than not. I’ve seen darkness die in the presence of light. I’ve seen fear, and I’ve seen hope reborn.

It’s been a strange week. And it’s only Thursday. There are a multitude of storms headed inland. There are fires spreading. But we can be the difference makers.
I’m asking you to be the good in the rest of this week. Lend a hand. Encourage someone. Pray with someone. Help someone. Step out of your comfortable or uncomfortable home and be the hands and feet of Jesus this week. 
You are stronger, wiser, braver, and far more compassionate than you think you are. Run to the battle.

When waters rise and we learn an awful lot about letting go

This has been a hard day. My family is in the Hurricane Harvey zone of southeast Texas, and we spent the entire day cleaning out a flooded home. The Entire Day. I still smell the stench of rotten food, wet carpet, and the mud.

Water soaked four to five feet high of everything. The ground. The furniture. The walls. We set mildew covered shoes out to dry, and I thought about yesterday when I stopped to tell a total stranger how sorry I was about his apartment flooding. That man shook my hand and thanked me for caring. Simply for caring. I still tear up remembering.

But today, I lost a little of myself. And now I’m dealing with that left over bad taste of anger that somehow mingles with regret and makes you feel a little sick inside. So here I am, and I don’t even know you, but I need to tell you something anyway. See, we’ve come around this table. We’ve come here to a common place, and I hope you’ll bear with me.

I lost it today. We salvaged what we could from the flooded house. And then we salvaged water ruined things. The unsalvageable, the irreparable, the soon to be molded and mildewed. (Is that even a word?)

Yesterday, I spent all day traveling around the area, seeing home after home with piles of debris. I kept trying to fathom how you lay all your hard earned possessions at the curb, water soaked and ruined, and just walk away. Then, I spent today arguing with someone who needed to and wouldn’t.

Neither day felt right. I have this ache inside spreading slow though my veins. The grief for their loss. The heartbreak over my angry words. I’ve spent a week distraught over what others have lost and in one day, I’ve demanded that someone see reason, let it all go, and walk away. Turns out, for some, it really isn’t all that easy. It isn’t just stuff and those two benign sounding words are cruel.

I’m wishing hard this were someone else’s post, someone else’s day. I had expected to feel good about our labor today. Instead, I’m sore body, heart, and soul.

Floods take away more than stuff; floods take away pride, possessions, comfort, and memories. Floods leave behind ground that needs to be found again, turned over, and revived. It turns out that getting to the good ground is the real labor, and the stuff is the harvest of previous labor.

Tomorrow we’ll try again with the pulling out and packing up. Tomorrow I will find myself. I’ll apologize. I’ll extend grace. And I’ll quietly pray for the flooded out to find the ability to throw out and start again.