Listen, O Lord of the meeting rivers,
Things standing shall fall
But the moving ever shall stay.
Basavanna, 12th century Hindu philosopher, poet and statesman
Early Morning Thoughts: August 31, 2005
Nightmare says it all. Our New Orleans home is ruined, of that I am certain. When we left New Orleans on Saturday evening, we expected to return in three or four days, a week at the most. Now this early Tuesday morning we are five scared, homeless people with one car, five small suitcases, and an old dog. Surreal images float past my eyes in the dark like an ever-spooling news feed about the end of the world, the end of my world. The voice-over whispers insistent questions: How long until…? What has happened to…? Where is…? How will you…?
After a while I tire of the nightmare and push through to wakefulness. My mind adjusts itself to this new place. I crave familiarity. I want to find a place to stay put and make mine again. The nesting impulse is overwhelming. Our Dallas hotel is lovely, accommodating, friendly, sympathetic–but it is not home. The sheets are stiff and scratchy when I need softness. I can’t find comfort food, I’m sick of these clothes already, and we need to get prescription refills.
Each time I see the images of devastation on TV I breathe a prayer of gratitude for Amanda’s call to action that propelled us out of the city. Gratitude does not reduce my fears or salve my grief, however.
And yet we have all that we need to move on. We have each other, we have our family and friends, financial resources, offers of places to stay. With each new call and email I witness God’s healing hand guiding us, pulling us through to safety. And I have faith that we will move on. God will help us find the path to a new place in our lives. May it be so for all who are suffering from this storm.
Immediate Needs
We arrive in Opelousas in early afternoon. Steve’s cousin, MJ, welcomes us to the beautiful home she and her husband, James, built a few years before. When I enter I hear the echoes of happy Thanksgiving meals shared with her parents and our combined families in less troubled times, and I relax in the memory. MJ embraces us all, shows us to our rooms upstairs, and pulls me aside. “Janice, I want you to know that this is your home while you are here. Use the kitchen whenever you want.” She took my hand and placed a generous amount of cash in it, wrapping my fingers around the bills. “Buy the food your family likes. It will help you all to feel like life is still normal.”
MJ drives us around Opelousas, pointing out Walmart, a supermarket, Walgreen’s, and the service center for state and federal agencies. I appreciate her sensitivity to our need to feel independent and in control of our own activities. The town of Opelousas has been greatly impacted by a disaster which took place more than 100 miles away. Yellow school buses with familiar names and New Orleans city buses with their Mardi Gras colors are parked at Walmart. The store is packed with people looking like we feel, a bit bedraggled, stunned, searching for life’s essential goods.
The girls spot a rack of funny t-shirts. Dayana picks out a cute one with an airplane that says “Take off, buddy,” but Amanda finds the prize. Her shirt has a picture of a bridge and the popular phrase, “Build a bridge and get over it.” I vow to make that my motto.
All the streets are clogged with traffic. MJ drives us to her church to show us the kidney dialysis center that is being set up there, along with a shelter in the fellowship hall. MJ drops off pillows and blankets from Walmart, and tells us that James will be flipping hamburgers there the next day to feed the refugees. I startle at the word. “Refugee” has become my new identity.
We wait for nearly two hours at Walgreen’s to submit our refill requests for prescriptions. While standing in line I see an acquaintance from my workplace, the Supreme Court of Louisiana. She looks shell-shocked and exhausted as she tells me that the only place she has to stay is in a tent in a nearby park. Her car is out of gas and she has no money. I give her what I have to spare and tell her about MJ’s church. Nearly everyone is uncertain about finances. Banks, like all other services in New Orleans, were flooded and computer equipment damaged. We don’t know when our paychecks, due to be deposited today, will be available, and we have no idea how much money is in our account or how to access it.
When we return to MJ’s, Dana is frantic in the garage, barking and running around. Isolated, hot, and in a strange place, she craves our presence, yet the house is no place for untidy and rambunctious Dana. MJ offers the Yellow Pages and I call a few kennels. Most are already overcrowded with refugee dogs from New Orleans. Finally, we find one that can take her, and we drive to the other side of Opelousas. A woman greets us at the door and shows us where she keeps the dogs. The place looks acceptably clean and the dogs already there appear to be fed and cared for. We really have no other options, only hope that she will take good care of our beloved old friend. She encourages us to call every day for a report, and I beg her to call us if anything goes wrong. We spend a few minutes getting Dana settled and leave. I glance back as we pull out of the driveway and see her looking forlorn. A little frisson of worry creeps down my back. It is terribly hard to let go of Dana, even temporarily. I suddenly realize how truly important she is to our family, the symbol of all that we have left behind in New Orleans.
We unpack and wash clothes, make phone calls to give out our new contact information, read our email. MJ and James take us to a cozy, local restaurant for dinner and we fill up on good Louisiana comfort food. That night as we settle in for bed, the five of us gather in Ted and Dayana’s room to talk. We all express our grief about what has already happened to our lives, our fears about the future.
Dear Sister Shull 