by Lori Pistor

From the airplane window blue tarped roofs seem to reflect the momentarily brilliant blue sky, lovely to be seen, cloaking what could not be seen: families displaced, lives destroyed, more tears and questions than comfort and answers. On the ground, what could be seen changed: piles and piles and piles and piles and piles and piles of debris. Bricks, trees, toys, tables, refrigerators and stoves and vehicles crumpled like cardboard boxes mid mud, filth, trash … broken pieces of homes and lives and businesses and schools piled useless at the curb, scattered along blocks and blocks of what must have once been mowed lawns where neighbors talked about the next football game or the weather.

The second beginning of a PDA base camp lay stretched across the grass green and red dirt baseball field at Rudy Moran Park. Hurricane Rita had changed the plans mid week, drenching tents, supplies and first arrival volunteers alike. The teams simply sought other kinds of cover … cooking and serving meals for hundreds of residents and volunteers, working at PODs, Points of Distribution, connecting with community leaders to help bring some kind of order to the chaos and the chaos and the chaos.

Out of chaos, hope says the PDA slogan.

Hope was coming slowly. Most days it still seemed like out of chaos, more chaos.

Work teams began to make the tents of Rudy Moran Park their home. They came from north and south and east and west, by bus and car and truck and plane and van; women and men, from 21 years old to 81 years young: Some delightful, some irritating; some very quiet, some too loud; some skilled, some all thumbs … parts of the body of Christ, serving one another a communion meal of slices of Bunny’s white bread and grape juice from paper cups.

Mornings came early, always someone up very early making the coffee that the unexpected luxury of electricity provided. Not too many sunrise takers on the solar showers until day’s end when the sun had warmed the water or the heat of the day’s work and grime made water of any temperature more than welcome.

It was so much easier to be there in a Gulf state than to watch from afar. The joy of the Spirit blown into each person; being able to do; laughter and camaraderie no matter the task: mucking out houses and buildings … shoveling stagnant water soaked carpet and walls and belongings into the street; sawing and chopping downed trees; cooking meal after meal after meal, never quite sure how many people might come; stacking, sorting, distributing food and diapers and daily necessities to people who were tired and desperate and afraid and impatient and angry; rebuilding the base camp so that others could come and be welcome and be energized to tackle the tasks that will take months and months and lifetimes.

Hearing the stories, hearing the stories…not spoken with tones of complaint, but tenor of matter of fact:

Riding out the storm in the neighbors’ attic; being on site when an evacuated family looked upon their destroyed home for the first time: where to begin; the death of a mother, miles away, evacuated from her life time home, her husband of 54 years ready to bring her home; car after car of people driving into the Rudy Moran parking lot looking for help, for the Red Cross, for food, for ice, for medicine, for a place to stay.

Sometimes, rarely we had answers; sometimes the best of all we could do was a bottle of cold water and too few minutes of listening, a blessing, a hug.

Those were stories we heard, minimal to the stories that could not be heard from those who had not, would not come back again to homes that no longer existed or existed now as mounds of rubble or slabs of cement as if waiting for a beginning not an ending.

Closer to the water’s edge were the tell tale signs of the gigantic surge, the one that moved houses off their foundations, stripped trees of vegetation, hung rags and trash in the highest of bare limbs, caused observer after observer to note with teary eyes in hushed voice, “It looks like a bomb went off.”

As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but rubble syncopated with signs of life as it once was and hope as it will be: a china faced doll delicately perched in a window; a stuffed toy defiant atop a pile of junk; a billowing American flag staked into what was once the entry steps to a house; indomitable spirits painting signs in front of demolished homes: For Sale — Cheap; For Sale — Recently Renovated Home.

Across the water in East Biloxi, giant casino ships sat on land, 1000 feet from where they had been moored at the ends of piers; markers were the only remnant of historical buildings; a front loader heaved mounds of rubble from around the only-thing-standing sign that read, Specialty Hospital. Of 5 bridges to Biloxi, only one remained open and, on it, only 2 of 4 traffic filled lanes as repairs were being made underneath. At a distance, the great draw bridge is stuck open, as like hands lifted in desperate prayer. One Buddhist temple parking lot was a make shift Point of Distribution. Every once in awhile a church was open to provide food or clothing. Others may have wanted to be…but were themselves damaged or destroyed.

At most every juncture, volunteers who wore the lanyard D’Iberville ID tags around their necks were greeted with words of appreciation and welcome. One young store clerk was surprised to learn why we were there and thought it was pretty cool.

Most of the teams who had been on site for one or two weeks were headed home on the same Friday morning. Though most were ready to see family and friends and to sleep to sounds other than the ongoing traffic from the highways, most were not really ready to leave. We could acknowledge that what we had been about was a drop in the bucket, yet it was so good to be part of that drop. Most are planning to come back … some sooner, some later … usually with plans to bring others.

Everyone departed with images forever embedded in her or his memory along with the collection of embraces gathered throughout the week from residents and other volunteers. It is hard to let go of the simple intimacy of that kind of community.

There were plenty of disagreements, tense moments, even some confrontations. Most ultimately melted into solution and reconciliation. Some will be part of the healing that must continue.

As this is being written, the news is ablaze with the horrifying news of the Pakistani earthquake, the death toll rising over 40,000, the roads impassable to bring aid. In Guatemala, hundreds of lives are destroyed from a massive mudslide. The fires in the western United States are currently contained.

Some say the earth is angry, that it is groaning in travail.

We hold fast to the Spirit who hears our every prayer, even the ones that are too deep for sighs, especially the ones covered with smelly dirt and salty tears.