Kali McCrady works to remove the bath tub in the home where two homeowners died during Hurricane Katrina. Photo: Tom McCrady

As the plane approached New Orleans, over an hour late because of storms in Dallas, I wondered what this city would be like now. It had been a year since I had first volunteered to help this area recover from the double whammy of two hurricanes over the summer of 2005.

The first impression as we entered the Louis Armstrong International Airport was certainly favorable. The facility was bustling with activity. A year ago it was nearly empty.

This return trip was months in the making. My wife, Kali, and I had joined a group of 14 adults from Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church of Puyallup, Washington, in April 2006 to assist in the hurricane recovery efforts. We left New Orleans a week later fully committed to tell the story of this area to as many people as possible and to return a year later. This year we felt we had fulfilled that promise. Kali and I had met with two churches, and both congregations had sent groups to Louisiana and Mississippi. And here we were, about to spend our second week in the Gulf Coast with a group now of 21 adults representing three churches.

Kali and I quickly realized after we returned from our first visit that there was no way others could really understand the story of post-Katrina New Orleans. We could share stories, pictures and video all day, yet unless people spent a few days viewing and working in the devastation, mucking houses or listening to stories, it was impossible for others to really understand. A lot of emotion is involved, a lot of grief. People cannot get the full picture without seeing the devastation first-hand, smelling the death and destruction, hearing the many stories of pain. It is hard to describe what it is like to walk into a home where a married couple lost their lives, a home now covered in black mold, with dishes still stacked neatly in the kitchen cupboards, some still with flood water inside. The story cannot be understood until you take those dishes from the cupboard and toss them into a large pile of debris now growing on the street in front of the home.

Our group stayed in a camp hosted by the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) in Luling, Louisiana, a town a few miles outside of New Orleans. The church had built the camp originally with plans to stay in New Orleans for three to five years. That has now changed to seven to 10 years. There is that much work still to do.

The camp primarily hosts church groups, but will certainly host any group needing a base of operations.

Our group worked on four homes during the week. The first was the most difficult because the homeowner, Miss Carter, was a big-time keeper — and is a person with a genuine hording disorder — she kept everything!! We found magazines and newspapers that were over 20 years old. There were stacks upon stacks upon stacks of papers and old clothing — clothes that belonged to her deceased mother, many with dry cleaning bags and tags from 1984. And most of it all was covered in mouse or rat droppings. Three previous groups had tried to muck out her house, but were not successful because the woman refused to cooperate. Our group managed to succeed because we were able to convince her that we understood that she was just trying to protect her belongings . During the day and a half that we worked on her house, she sat in her front yard, going through most every box and bag that we took from her house. We had three nurses in our group, and they were able to convince her to wear gloves and a face mask to protect her from the toxic materials . We ended up buying several plastic bins with lids to keep safe her old clothes and papers from the elements.

The fact that a drug house sat next door to Miss Carter’s home also made it more challenging. Mind you, after the hurricanes this area transformed into a very poor neighborhood, yet we noticed several expensive cars stopped in front of the home and leave a few moments later. We were asked by the neighbor to move a couple of our cars because the “family” was moving and a moving van was coming. Well, the van came and went several times during the day, but nothing was ever put in the van or taken out. We soon realized this was probably a roving meth lab.

The most difficult house emotionally was a brick home we mucked in the middle of the week. As our group arrived, a deafening silence spread over us. Some cried as they looked through the windows or briefly walked through the home. As we waited a few moments for the second half of our group to arrive, we gathered in a circle, held hands and prayed. The inside of the home was littered with papers and clothing. Black mold had spread over the interior walls and ceilings. The couple who had lived in this home had died during the storm. The wife drowned in the flood waters and the husband was killed outside by a falling tree. The neighborhood was your typical middle-class area. We were far from the well-known Ninth Ward or Lower Ninth Ward. Most of the homes were empty and many had been mucked. There were no children to be seen or heard. A golf course was a few blocks away, but it hadn’t been cared for or used since Katrina and Rita.

Our grief worsened when we learned that a couple blocks away were homes that had been damaged recently by a tornado. A mother and daughter died after her FEMA trailer was struck by the twister. Next door to us sat an empty FEMA trailer and a home that had been partially mucked. The family had tried to restore their home following the hurricanes and flooding, but had given up and abandoned the trailer and home. Across the street was a man named Charlie. His son died of a brain aneurysm a week before the hurricane, and his wife died a couple months later of a “broken heart” after the storm. The home was beautiful in this sea of devastation. Charlie had promised his wife before she died that he would restore their home. After her death he kept his promise. He was very friendly, allowing us the use of his bathroom. He told stories of the neighborhood pre-Katrina. Down the road a bit, towards the homes hit by the twister, we found a few other church groups working on homes. It seemed as if this neighborhood was trying to breathe again.

We did enjoy the final home we worked on from the start. It was pure joy! It was located across the street from the drug house. We met the owner, a Mr. Washington, while working on Miss Carter’s house. He is a man in his 60s and had tried to muck out his home alone. He was a bit shy to ask for help, but after seeing us working on his neighbor's residence, Mr. Washington finally convinced himself to get assistance. The 21 of us were able to finish his home in a day. He was right there working with us and it was a lot of fun. This gentleman merely wanted to start his life over again and bring some sort of calm and normalcy back to his neighborhood. He told us the drug peddlers were new to the area since Katrina. Mr. Washington was fully committed to living again. This big, strong man cried as we left.

Just like the previous year, it was difficult to leave New Orleans. The work is far from complete. Yet jobs and family and other responsibilities were calling us home. The people of this area are so grateful that we, and the many others who volunteer, make the effort to restore their city. We heard a thousand times, "Thank you, thank you for coming to help." This was said not only by the home owners, but people on the street, in the restaurants, and other stores. During our week we saw and met many other volunteers from various churches. We heard stories of college students spending their spring break in New Orleans, helping to bring this town back to life.

And, like last year, I created and daily updated a web site so others could share in our journey. I asked members of our group to journal their experiences on the site. One member wrote the following paragraph and it seemed a fitting ending to this story:

“Things aren't always, as they appear to be on the surface. The surface is thinking that nature's taking back what we had built and realizing it's the Bayou. The surface is thinking that missing houses is acreage; that blue tarps are the worst damage; desolate streets are peaceful...

On the surface this story began funny. But the reality is something completely different.

There is another view, deeper. One that you can't see from the interstate and that television won't show you anymore. This will take more time than a sound bite will allow. These wounds won't heal during a commercial break. But there is hope. If only we can remember.”

Author and work team participant Tom McCrady is a member of Shepherd of the Hill Presbyterian Church of Puyallup, Washington, which organized the mission trip. They were joined by participants from Celebration Christian Church of Tacoma, Washington, and Southminster Presbyterian Church of Des Moines, Washington.