“What makes a hero? Where do they come from? Where is the “hero school” they go to? Maybe nothing “makes” them heroes – maybe they just “are.”
Passing out boxes of food door-to-door or tent-to-tent certainly does not fit the “hero” mold. Stopping and listening to people isn’t “hero-ish” either but it does let the stories be told. This is one such story. It begs for embellishment but I will try to just tell it in the same off-handed, casual way that I was told it. The hero didn’t tell it, someone else did.
“Hey guys, we’ve got food and cleaning supplies. Need some?”
The older of the two teen-ish, country-boy types allowed as how they sure did. They appeared to be alone in the hurricane trash strewn lot. The flood-ruined A-frame house fronted by a tent pitched under a tarp told the story if you took time to read it. I was a bit uneasy about asking but I had to.
“Where’s your mom and dad?”
The older, maybe 19, looked me squarely in the eye and said they were off looking for supplies. The younger, maybe 12 or 13, looked me squarely in the eye and didn’t say anything.
After a while, you learn to just go ahead and ask the sort of “personal” stuff.
“Were you here during the storm?”
The older – “I wasn’t. I was in jail. They let us out to help after the storm. My brother was here, and my mother and our little sister. They were all three here.”
Looking at the younger, “What was it like, the storm, I mean?”
The older – “Well, my brother, here, and mother and my little sister all saw the water rising fast, like. Mother and sister went in the house.” Gesturing at the shoulder-high little brother, “He went over to the boat and started un-hooking it from the trailer. By the time he got that done the boat was floating so he climbed in. When he got the outboard started, the water had come so high that mother and sister were in the attic. He drove the boat around to the end of the house, there, and broke out the vent and got mother and sister into the boat.”
The younger brother just looked and very respectfully let big brother tell the story with only an occasional affirmative nod.
“What happened next?”
“He drove the boat down the road, down that-a-way.”
You have to understand that the “road” was by this time a tree-lined canal maybe 16 feet deep. The wind was 150 miles per hour, and these three were in a small open motor boat.
“And then what happened?”
“He drove to some neighbors’ house, some real old people, and got them out of their attic, too. Then he went to some other old people’s house but he couldn’t get them out. We don’t know what happened to them. Then he drove on out.”
“Where did they go?”
“It was lucky. There was enough gas to find a high spot. Then they came back.”
Another silent and respectful nod.
What makes a hero? Why did he go to the boat? So many questions. So many right decisions.
You will never know his name. You don’t need to. Just remember his story. When your turn comes in a “storm” – be a hero.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Good News
Good News from Biloxi
I got off the phone with Paul Warren, the minister at the church some of us were working with in Biloxi. While the discussion was focussed on future plans, he wanted to share a past success. I'll leave the story of how the Division Street and Long Beach congregations got hooked up to Stuart and Paul. They were there and know the story, while I was out and about other places. While the brothers and sisters from Biloxi were visiting Long Beach, they were given 21 turkeys and other Thanksgiving fixings. With these turkeys the church in Biloxi put together a neighborhood turkey fry, which was attended by more that 300. Of these 300 souls, one desired to learn about the good news and desired to put on christ. Let's rejoice with the angels.
Orange Shirts and Rock Stars
We've packed up the trailers. It's time to go. Ron Evans has just a couple of things on his mind. He wants to offer a prayer on our behalf - for our safety, for the mission, to bless us, to guide us, and to grant us comfort. He also has these gaudy, bright orange shirts. They read simply Central Relief and have a big cross. The message is on target.
I watch my son playing the air guitar entertaining secret delusions of grandeur. He thinks no one is watching, and I allow him the privacy of the moment. I too have those momentary fantasies. I heard a song with a friend of mine not too long ago...
I'm not a rock star. I'm just a plain ole guy. It was funny, though. On some of the streets of Bay St Louis, wearing the Orange Shirt... I was kind of like a rock star. People knew who the orange shirters were. The Central Relief team, not Jamie - for I had just arrived, was recognized and known. It was kind of neat to be known, and I was honored to be following the reputation of those who have gone on before me. When people stop you to ask for help as you are walking or driving down the road because of a shirt you are wearing, then you know that someone else has planted a seed that is taking root. May God bless these seeds.
Some who have gone down to Mississippi have compared wearing the orange shirts to being like a rock star. I just wanted to leave the thought here that it happened. Let us not forget what has happened.
Jamie
I watch my son playing the air guitar entertaining secret delusions of grandeur. He thinks no one is watching, and I allow him the privacy of the moment. I too have those momentary fantasies. I heard a song with a friend of mine not too long ago...
I just want to be a rock star
I want to be the king
I want to be on top
I just want to be a rock star
I just want to be famous
Everybody everywhere wants to be famous....
I'm not a rock star. I'm just a plain ole guy. It was funny, though. On some of the streets of Bay St Louis, wearing the Orange Shirt... I was kind of like a rock star. People knew who the orange shirters were. The Central Relief team, not Jamie - for I had just arrived, was recognized and known. It was kind of neat to be known, and I was honored to be following the reputation of those who have gone on before me. When people stop you to ask for help as you are walking or driving down the road because of a shirt you are wearing, then you know that someone else has planted a seed that is taking root. May God bless these seeds.
Some who have gone down to Mississippi have compared wearing the orange shirts to being like a rock star. I just wanted to leave the thought here that it happened. Let us not forget what has happened.
Jamie
Sunday, November 27, 2005
What Will She Remember
Sending teams of volunteers out to do service work is challenging. People drive two days to work two days and they want something to tuck away inside to remember – some success. That is not their motive for coming. Love, altruistic love, is what brings them, but they want and need to feel useful.
Sending a team of university students to a flooded, muck-filled house to clean it out all the way down to the wood is not what the stereotypical university student may expect. These kids are not the usual university students. They are my Father’s children. They march to His drum, not theirs.
Katie was a college girl with all the lovely features that attract the attention of the college guys. When she arrived at Long Beach after 1:00 a.m., she looked about as tired as the others. The next morning, she had on work clothes.
People who “gut houses” aren’t a pretty site when they drag back in late in the afternoon. They don’t smell very good. They have “hat head” and their clothes make strong garbage cans cringe. The last thing they expect is for the guy who sent them out with a prayer that morning to greet them at the door with “You guys are nasty and you smell awful!” Their next surprise is the big hug they get from him – nastiness, vile smell, and all. Somehow it breaks the tiredness and makes the filth a kind of badge of honor. That’s how she reacted for a moment but then she was down again.
Part of sending out teams is bringing them back again. She needed something. Sitting together, she and he began to talk about her day. She knew she was supposed to be “up” but it just wasn’t happening. The old lady was a widow. Her house had flooded way deep and most of her life’s stuff was ruined. She had forgotten to take her wedding ring when she evacuated.
A sensitive girl, the university student decided to find the wedding ring. All day, she hunted, much of the time on her knees. She found an emerald ring and a necklace. Still she hunted. The wedding ring was never found. Bummer.
“What will the old lady remember? What will she tell people about today?” he asked.
“That we worked in her house, that she had lost so much, that we tried to save things for her.”
“What will she tell about more than anything else?”
A tiny, choked whisper, “That her wedding ring is lost.” Then the muck on the college girl’s cheeks ran and smeared with the big tears.
“Yes, she will tell that. But every time she tells that story – every time – she will tell of the girl who crawled in the muck all day trying to find the wedding ring. The look of loss will change to a smile as she moves the story from the lost ring to the sweet, young girl who hunted for it.”
The heart of a servant, the heart of God’s kids, understands that it is not about the thing or the success of finding the thing. It is about the touch of love.
Wedding rings are about love. Long ago, when the proud young man gave his bride that ring it was the symbol of his love. He didn’t know that his ring, even though lost, would again symbolize love for his bride – love a college girl would shower on her.
Sending a team of university students to a flooded, muck-filled house to clean it out all the way down to the wood is not what the stereotypical university student may expect. These kids are not the usual university students. They are my Father’s children. They march to His drum, not theirs.
Katie was a college girl with all the lovely features that attract the attention of the college guys. When she arrived at Long Beach after 1:00 a.m., she looked about as tired as the others. The next morning, she had on work clothes.
People who “gut houses” aren’t a pretty site when they drag back in late in the afternoon. They don’t smell very good. They have “hat head” and their clothes make strong garbage cans cringe. The last thing they expect is for the guy who sent them out with a prayer that morning to greet them at the door with “You guys are nasty and you smell awful!” Their next surprise is the big hug they get from him – nastiness, vile smell, and all. Somehow it breaks the tiredness and makes the filth a kind of badge of honor. That’s how she reacted for a moment but then she was down again.
Part of sending out teams is bringing them back again. She needed something. Sitting together, she and he began to talk about her day. She knew she was supposed to be “up” but it just wasn’t happening. The old lady was a widow. Her house had flooded way deep and most of her life’s stuff was ruined. She had forgotten to take her wedding ring when she evacuated.
A sensitive girl, the university student decided to find the wedding ring. All day, she hunted, much of the time on her knees. She found an emerald ring and a necklace. Still she hunted. The wedding ring was never found. Bummer.
“What will the old lady remember? What will she tell people about today?” he asked.
“That we worked in her house, that she had lost so much, that we tried to save things for her.”
“What will she tell about more than anything else?”
A tiny, choked whisper, “That her wedding ring is lost.” Then the muck on the college girl’s cheeks ran and smeared with the big tears.
“Yes, she will tell that. But every time she tells that story – every time – she will tell of the girl who crawled in the muck all day trying to find the wedding ring. The look of loss will change to a smile as she moves the story from the lost ring to the sweet, young girl who hunted for it.”
The heart of a servant, the heart of God’s kids, understands that it is not about the thing or the success of finding the thing. It is about the touch of love.
Wedding rings are about love. Long ago, when the proud young man gave his bride that ring it was the symbol of his love. He didn’t know that his ring, even though lost, would again symbolize love for his bride – love a college girl would shower on her.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Sharing - It's a hard lesson.
When I was a child, I was never too good at sharing. I worried that someone else would break it, take it, waste, or who knows - something worse. I thought the things a had were very special. I didn't want to loose them. I didn't want them to get scratched. I want everything of mine to be in good condition. Worry has a way of being irrational, and so do I.
In some ways I have gotten over that... sort of. I have learned an important principle -
I no longer mind letting people borrow my stuff. I don't mind giving up my extra money or time. At work, I give to the charitable outlet, I volunteer at my kids' school, I support their extra curricular activity, at Christmas I give to the needy - and whenever I need arises I try to always support that activity with some sort of check.
I guess from a childish point of view I have point of view, I have moved on; but as I sit and reflect on the Gulf I realize I still have more growing up to do. My Mom did a wonder job raising me - but I guess God has more work yet to do... As a child of God I still have growing up to do - and more likely than not I could probably step it up a notch on that sharing thing a little.
When I went to Long Beach, I saw I a great need. I did not mind giving a few buck here and there. I didn't mind throwing a wrecking bar, clearing fell trees, picking up rotten food, distributing supplies, or providing rides to those whose cars were lost. I listen to the stories of fear, loss, and frustration. If I get an opportunity, when the questions arise. I get the opportunity to share something very special.
The first trip was tough, but touching. It moved my heart heart and spirit. I like to think that I made a difference. At best I know I just planted a few seeds, left in hopes that someone else will water them and in faith that God will give the increase. I wanted to share Long Beach with my bride and my bride with Long Beach, so when I returned for a second trip I brought her.
The second trip was revealing. Jan is more patient than I, and generally less cynical. She was able to reach a part of people that I do not even see. Jan knew what things were like. She heard the stories, but somehow by participating you are changed. I am glad there was time for some sharing there.
Now what is that I am most afraid to share? Is it my things? Not really. Is it my money. To some extent I struggle with that. I'm working on that. But not too bad. Is it my time. Oh, I need to clear my busy schedule and make time for people all around me here that's for sure. But, I seem to make time for the critical events. What else can I share....
My children. Oh that's a hard one to think about. As parents we've been given special responsibility to raise, protect, nuture, love, and so much more. I wonder sometimes fail to share out children. I do. I'm afraid. What will happen if.... Will they... Would they....
Here I go worrying again. I need to be a responsible parent, but I can be a faithful responsible parent. I can trust God. The families of the gulf need encouragement and need to hear the seed of the word. My kids need to learn from their dad that this is important, in word, in deed, and in practice. Who knows how God may choose to use my son or daughter. As I learn to share my life and myself - to be that living sacrifice - as a Christian father - I must learn to pass this lesson on to my children. I suspect that by sharing them and sharing the experience of Long Beach with them is the way. My challenge is to seek God's guidance and find the way.
In some ways I have gotten over that... sort of. I have learned an important principle -
19"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust
destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. 20But store up for yourselves
treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves
do not break in and steal. 21For where your treasure is, there your heart
will be
also. - Matthew 6
I no longer mind letting people borrow my stuff. I don't mind giving up my extra money or time. At work, I give to the charitable outlet, I volunteer at my kids' school, I support their extra curricular activity, at Christmas I give to the needy - and whenever I need arises I try to always support that activity with some sort of check.
I guess from a childish point of view I have point of view, I have moved on; but as I sit and reflect on the Gulf I realize I still have more growing up to do. My Mom did a wonder job raising me - but I guess God has more work yet to do... As a child of God I still have growing up to do - and more likely than not I could probably step it up a notch on that sharing thing a little.
When I went to Long Beach, I saw I a great need. I did not mind giving a few buck here and there. I didn't mind throwing a wrecking bar, clearing fell trees, picking up rotten food, distributing supplies, or providing rides to those whose cars were lost. I listen to the stories of fear, loss, and frustration. If I get an opportunity, when the questions arise. I get the opportunity to share something very special.
The first trip was tough, but touching. It moved my heart heart and spirit. I like to think that I made a difference. At best I know I just planted a few seeds, left in hopes that someone else will water them and in faith that God will give the increase. I wanted to share Long Beach with my bride and my bride with Long Beach, so when I returned for a second trip I brought her.
The second trip was revealing. Jan is more patient than I, and generally less cynical. She was able to reach a part of people that I do not even see. Jan knew what things were like. She heard the stories, but somehow by participating you are changed. I am glad there was time for some sharing there.
Now what is that I am most afraid to share? Is it my things? Not really. Is it my money. To some extent I struggle with that. I'm working on that. But not too bad. Is it my time. Oh, I need to clear my busy schedule and make time for people all around me here that's for sure. But, I seem to make time for the critical events. What else can I share....
My children. Oh that's a hard one to think about. As parents we've been given special responsibility to raise, protect, nuture, love, and so much more. I wonder sometimes fail to share out children. I do. I'm afraid. What will happen if.... Will they... Would they....
Here I go worrying again. I need to be a responsible parent, but I can be a faithful responsible parent. I can trust God. The families of the gulf need encouragement and need to hear the seed of the word. My kids need to learn from their dad that this is important, in word, in deed, and in practice. Who knows how God may choose to use my son or daughter. As I learn to share my life and myself - to be that living sacrifice - as a Christian father - I must learn to pass this lesson on to my children. I suspect that by sharing them and sharing the experience of Long Beach with them is the way. My challenge is to seek God's guidance and find the way.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Sand
It’s so overwhelming!
Biloxi, Gulfport, Pass Christian, Bay St. Louis, Waveland, Diamondhead, South of the Tracks, North of the tracks, and on and on, and more and more.
It’s too much!
We gut one house or maybe two in a weekend. Maybe we clear trees and debris out of two yards. Door-to-door, we give out maybe 75 boxes of food or a few hundred blankets. And what about the slabs – what helps there?
We drive back to Huntsville and hardly notice the lack of debris when we get there. What’s accomplished? Those folks have to stay there.
Two buckets – one filled with fine grains of sand, the other empty. You with tender sensitivity, move one grain at a time. One, two, three, maybe four and you have to stop. The buckets look unchanged.
The sand grains know they have been moved. Each sand grain felt your touch as you gently surrounded it.
Gut a house but save a china plate – one grain moved.
Give a family a box and hear the story of their narrow escape – one grain moved.
Hand blankets to a woman whose breath you can see in the cold air - one grain moved.
Loan a scoop then have lunch together – one grain moved.
Cry with the man who must identify someone at the morgue – one grain moved.
Hug a sweaty team mate in a dirty orange shirt – one grain moved.
The sand grains know they have been moved.
The sand grains, too, thought it was so overwhelming. As they felt your gentle touch, they knew they had been moved.
It’s not so overwhelming.
Biloxi, Gulfport, Pass Christian, Bay St. Louis, Waveland, Diamondhead, South of the Tracks, North of the tracks, and on and on, and more and more.
It’s too much!
We gut one house or maybe two in a weekend. Maybe we clear trees and debris out of two yards. Door-to-door, we give out maybe 75 boxes of food or a few hundred blankets. And what about the slabs – what helps there?
We drive back to Huntsville and hardly notice the lack of debris when we get there. What’s accomplished? Those folks have to stay there.
Two buckets – one filled with fine grains of sand, the other empty. You with tender sensitivity, move one grain at a time. One, two, three, maybe four and you have to stop. The buckets look unchanged.
The sand grains know they have been moved. Each sand grain felt your touch as you gently surrounded it.
Gut a house but save a china plate – one grain moved.
Give a family a box and hear the story of their narrow escape – one grain moved.
Hand blankets to a woman whose breath you can see in the cold air - one grain moved.
Loan a scoop then have lunch together – one grain moved.
Cry with the man who must identify someone at the morgue – one grain moved.
Hug a sweaty team mate in a dirty orange shirt – one grain moved.
The sand grains know they have been moved.
The sand grains, too, thought it was so overwhelming. As they felt your gentle touch, they knew they had been moved.
It’s not so overwhelming.
Right on Top
Nashville - The man in the wheelchair came early to get everything at the end of the assembly line arranged just so. A few minutes later, the boxes would come down the conveyer and when they left him, they would be taped and sent to the big trucks. The food, water, and other supplies would support a family of four for several days. His was the last thing to go in - right on top. He came early. He didn’t want to hold things up.
Gulfport - One after another, the National Guard directed the eighteen-wheelers from Nashville into the church parking lot. Exausted volunteers on forklifts unloaded the boxes from the trucks. Others, just as tired, smiled and put the boxes in cars. Hundreds of cars each day, cars filled with hollow-eyed, depressed people. The box helped but more important was the smile, the hug, and the listening ear.
Long Beach - Pick-up trucks pulling borrowed trailers driven by the newly arrived volunteers brought the boxes from Gulfport. They made a huge stack covered with tarps. “Lord, hold back the rain.”
Bayside Park, Waveland - Door-to-door, “We have food and cleaning supplies. Can we leave some with you?”
“Yes and thank you so much.”
Or;
“No, but thank you. We have some crackers and soup. Our neighbors need it more than we.”
Or;
“What is in the box?” The couple, obviously of Middle Eastern origin, had already cleared out the trailer and raked the yard. It actually looked pretty good. Even the tent under the tarp was neatly arranged. The new chainsaw was being troublesome and he was visibly frustrated. She came to meet the three men with the boxes.
“Let’s open it and see.” The pocket knife made quick work of the packing tape and the lid flipped back.
“Ahh!” Her sharp intake of breath surprised the man.
“What? Toilet paper?” he thought.
“Mine got wet and for days I have tried to dry it but I had to throw it away today. Now I have a new one. A Bible!”
Nashville - The man in the wheelchair came early to get everything at the end of the assembly line arranged just so. His was the last thing to go in - right on top. He came early. He didn’t want to hold things up.
Gulfport - One after another, the National Guard directed the eighteen-wheelers from Nashville into the church parking lot. Exausted volunteers on forklifts unloaded the boxes from the trucks. Others, just as tired, smiled and put the boxes in cars. Hundreds of cars each day, cars filled with hollow-eyed, depressed people. The box helped but more important was the smile, the hug, and the listening ear.
Long Beach - Pick-up trucks pulling borrowed trailers driven by the newly arrived volunteers brought the boxes from Gulfport. They made a huge stack covered with tarps. “Lord, hold back the rain.”
Bayside Park, Waveland - Door-to-door, “We have food and cleaning supplies. Can we leave some with you?”
“Yes and thank you so much.”
Or;
“No, but thank you. We have some crackers and soup. Our neighbors need it more than we.”
Or;
“What is in the box?” The couple, obviously of Middle Eastern origin, had already cleared out the trailer and raked the yard. It actually looked pretty good. Even the tent under the tarp was neatly arranged. The new chainsaw was being troublesome and he was visibly frustrated. She came to meet the three men with the boxes.
“Let’s open it and see.” The pocket knife made quick work of the packing tape and the lid flipped back.
“Ahh!” Her sharp intake of breath surprised the man.
“What? Toilet paper?” he thought.
“Mine got wet and for days I have tried to dry it but I had to throw it away today. Now I have a new one. A Bible!”
Nashville - The man in the wheelchair came early to get everything at the end of the assembly line arranged just so. His was the last thing to go in - right on top. He came early. He didn’t want to hold things up.
You Guys Have It Figured Out
Saturday morning, September 17, 2005
The propped-up, handmade sign plainly said, “Closed.” He drove slowly past that and stopped. He looked a bit nervous, but he asked anyway, “Are you closed?”
I could not sleep. Since way early, my Bible reading had been done. I had prayed to be used as a light for Him. Strong, “submarine” coffee had been made and drank. Now I was out in the parking lot for the morning art show in the sky. “Yes, we are closed. What do you need?”
“Diapers.”
“We’ve got pallets full of diapers. What size?”
Cases of diapers and gallons of water went into the cluttered truck bed.
“How are you doing?” The question turned on his switch.
He needed to tell his story. The diapers were for his granddaughter. He lived south of the tracks near the beach where the storm surge hit hardest. His two rental houses were destroyed. The two-story house he lived in was flooded four feet up the walls on the second floor. Debris - the shredded, torn remains of other houses, broken power poles and wires, smashed tractor-trailers and cars, and a soggy, stuffed Goofy doll - was piled up to the second story porch. To carry the diapers and water in was an interesting proposition.
He is a professor, a Science Department Head, at a university. Not very religious. “Want to go across the tracks and see?”
“Yes, let me get my camera.”
An hour later, I was about past “stunned” and working on “recovery.” You have seen the pictures, but I had smelled the smell, touched the debris, heard the man, felt the emotion. Tears say a lot even between two grown men of science.
Back at the Long Beach church parking lot, we sat in his truck and finished our talk.
“Thanks for the ride and the talk. You have taught me a lot that I will never forget.”
“Ed, I have lost everything, but you know what? I feel free.” A long silence. Gesturing toward the church building, he softly whispered, “You guys have it figured out.”
Ed Ditto
The propped-up, handmade sign plainly said, “Closed.” He drove slowly past that and stopped. He looked a bit nervous, but he asked anyway, “Are you closed?”
I could not sleep. Since way early, my Bible reading had been done. I had prayed to be used as a light for Him. Strong, “submarine” coffee had been made and drank. Now I was out in the parking lot for the morning art show in the sky. “Yes, we are closed. What do you need?”
“Diapers.”
“We’ve got pallets full of diapers. What size?”
Cases of diapers and gallons of water went into the cluttered truck bed.
“How are you doing?” The question turned on his switch.
He needed to tell his story. The diapers were for his granddaughter. He lived south of the tracks near the beach where the storm surge hit hardest. His two rental houses were destroyed. The two-story house he lived in was flooded four feet up the walls on the second floor. Debris - the shredded, torn remains of other houses, broken power poles and wires, smashed tractor-trailers and cars, and a soggy, stuffed Goofy doll - was piled up to the second story porch. To carry the diapers and water in was an interesting proposition.
He is a professor, a Science Department Head, at a university. Not very religious. “Want to go across the tracks and see?”
“Yes, let me get my camera.”
An hour later, I was about past “stunned” and working on “recovery.” You have seen the pictures, but I had smelled the smell, touched the debris, heard the man, felt the emotion. Tears say a lot even between two grown men of science.
Back at the Long Beach church parking lot, we sat in his truck and finished our talk.
“Thanks for the ride and the talk. You have taught me a lot that I will never forget.”
“Ed, I have lost everything, but you know what? I feel free.” A long silence. Gesturing toward the church building, he softly whispered, “You guys have it figured out.”
Ed Ditto
The Iceman
September 16 - 18, 2005
Southern Mississippi
The plan was to let God show us what He wanted us to do. We had prayed for Him to do that.
“Where will we go first?” I asked.
“There is a ‘Food Distribution Center’ sign at the Orange Grove church building. Let’s go there,” Paul said.
“Who is in charge, here?” I asked. We were directed to Gary Finley from the Creve Hall church in Nashville, Tennessee. He was in charge of giving away huge amounts of food, water, and other necessities supplied mostly in boxes from the Churches of Christ Disaster Relief Fund. Gary recommended we go to the Long Beach church.
The boxes weigh about 60 pounds and contain several days’ supplies - food, water, paper stuff, plastic silverware, a paper-back Bible, and more for a family of four. Over 100 of them had been brought to the Long Beach church building. After a quick tetanus shot and a few minutes’ discussion with the preacher and two of the three elders, approximately 75 boxes were loaded on a borrowed trailer. People need them in Bay St. Louis.
On the way to Bay St. Louis that Friday night, we were called and told the targeted area was already being helped. We drove back to Long Beach.
Saturday morning a loosly assembled team from several congregations decided to take the boxes to somewhere in the Waveland/Bay St. Louis area. We figured if God wanted the food there, He would let us know where. We prayed about that.
The Iceman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. (Aren’t there some words about angels being there and people not recognizing them? Not an exact quote, but, at least, it’s the gist of Hebrews 13:2.) His name was never discovered - “Just call me The Iceman.” His woodworking business had washed away but the old, beat-up, white pickup truck had not. Blue duct tape on the doors proclaimed his new, volunteer status, “Free Ice.” He picked up ice from the National Guard and delivered it to people who needed it. “I will show you a place west of Waveland where the people need those boxes.”
The convoy had to wait to leave the church parking lot while a tire on the trailer was plugged and inflated. Almost to the I-10 overpass, a tire blew out – rubber flew everywhere. Parked on the onramp, nine sets of eyes examined the remains. The other three tires didn’t look much better. The Iceman volunteered to go to his place. His boat trailer had a spare but there was general doubt that it would fit. He went anyway.
Across the road was a tractor trailer repair place which had just re-opened that morning. I walked there thinking maybe they had a tire. “We are trying to get food into Waveland and our trailer blew a tire. Do you have a 15-inch tire?”
Everyone dropped what they were doing including the clerk. They all went hunting. Lots of huge truck tires but no 15-inch ones. The owner was shouted out from under a big truck to search. Nothing.
“If I find a tire, will you mount it for us?”
“You find it, I’ll mount it.”
We both turned to walk away. A man who I thought was an employee walked up and asked if it would OK for him to throw away this old tire. The owner and I looked at him, then at each other, then at the tire, then back at each-other. It didn’t look like much but it was a 15-inch tire. The owner and I grinned - big grins - and the customer looked at us like were were both crazy.
To understand the context of this “surprise,” you have to understand that fifteen to twenty foot plies of flood debris was everywhere. This man could have dropped his tire anywhere including right in front of his house. God knew we needed a tire.
The “provided” tire was mounted even though it didn’t merit a lengthy warranty.
“Surprise” number two - back at the trailer the Ice Man’s boat trailer wheel and tire had fit. It wasn’t real pretty, either. Five tires that actually held air. God had decided He wanted us to have a spare. Why was I surprised? We had asked Him to show us what He wanted done.
By the time we drove another ten or so miles to Waveland the boat trailer tire was flat. The National Guard was unable to help but told us of the Goodyear store east on Highway 90 but, they said, there was no electric power in the city.
We still don’t know why or how, but the Goodyear store, and it alone that we saw, had power. (My Father is just full of surprises!) The lights were on and the air compressor worked. They, too, had re-opened that morning. We bought three tires, a new one, and two “good” used ones that had served as weights holding down the tarp on the roof.
God wanted food delivered door-to-door to the folks in the Bayside Park area of Waveland, Mississippi. One Iceman, three tires, two newly re-opened businesses, and an unknown power source (think about that one) later, the food was delivered by His hand.
Ed Ditto
Southern Mississippi
The plan was to let God show us what He wanted us to do. We had prayed for Him to do that.
“Where will we go first?” I asked.
“There is a ‘Food Distribution Center’ sign at the Orange Grove church building. Let’s go there,” Paul said.
“Who is in charge, here?” I asked. We were directed to Gary Finley from the Creve Hall church in Nashville, Tennessee. He was in charge of giving away huge amounts of food, water, and other necessities supplied mostly in boxes from the Churches of Christ Disaster Relief Fund. Gary recommended we go to the Long Beach church.
The boxes weigh about 60 pounds and contain several days’ supplies - food, water, paper stuff, plastic silverware, a paper-back Bible, and more for a family of four. Over 100 of them had been brought to the Long Beach church building. After a quick tetanus shot and a few minutes’ discussion with the preacher and two of the three elders, approximately 75 boxes were loaded on a borrowed trailer. People need them in Bay St. Louis.
On the way to Bay St. Louis that Friday night, we were called and told the targeted area was already being helped. We drove back to Long Beach.
Saturday morning a loosly assembled team from several congregations decided to take the boxes to somewhere in the Waveland/Bay St. Louis area. We figured if God wanted the food there, He would let us know where. We prayed about that.
The Iceman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. (Aren’t there some words about angels being there and people not recognizing them? Not an exact quote, but, at least, it’s the gist of Hebrews 13:2.) His name was never discovered - “Just call me The Iceman.” His woodworking business had washed away but the old, beat-up, white pickup truck had not. Blue duct tape on the doors proclaimed his new, volunteer status, “Free Ice.” He picked up ice from the National Guard and delivered it to people who needed it. “I will show you a place west of Waveland where the people need those boxes.”
The convoy had to wait to leave the church parking lot while a tire on the trailer was plugged and inflated. Almost to the I-10 overpass, a tire blew out – rubber flew everywhere. Parked on the onramp, nine sets of eyes examined the remains. The other three tires didn’t look much better. The Iceman volunteered to go to his place. His boat trailer had a spare but there was general doubt that it would fit. He went anyway.
Across the road was a tractor trailer repair place which had just re-opened that morning. I walked there thinking maybe they had a tire. “We are trying to get food into Waveland and our trailer blew a tire. Do you have a 15-inch tire?”
Everyone dropped what they were doing including the clerk. They all went hunting. Lots of huge truck tires but no 15-inch ones. The owner was shouted out from under a big truck to search. Nothing.
“If I find a tire, will you mount it for us?”
“You find it, I’ll mount it.”
We both turned to walk away. A man who I thought was an employee walked up and asked if it would OK for him to throw away this old tire. The owner and I looked at him, then at each other, then at the tire, then back at each-other. It didn’t look like much but it was a 15-inch tire. The owner and I grinned - big grins - and the customer looked at us like were were both crazy.
To understand the context of this “surprise,” you have to understand that fifteen to twenty foot plies of flood debris was everywhere. This man could have dropped his tire anywhere including right in front of his house. God knew we needed a tire.
The “provided” tire was mounted even though it didn’t merit a lengthy warranty.
“Surprise” number two - back at the trailer the Ice Man’s boat trailer wheel and tire had fit. It wasn’t real pretty, either. Five tires that actually held air. God had decided He wanted us to have a spare. Why was I surprised? We had asked Him to show us what He wanted done.
By the time we drove another ten or so miles to Waveland the boat trailer tire was flat. The National Guard was unable to help but told us of the Goodyear store east on Highway 90 but, they said, there was no electric power in the city.
We still don’t know why or how, but the Goodyear store, and it alone that we saw, had power. (My Father is just full of surprises!) The lights were on and the air compressor worked. They, too, had re-opened that morning. We bought three tires, a new one, and two “good” used ones that had served as weights holding down the tarp on the roof.
God wanted food delivered door-to-door to the folks in the Bayside Park area of Waveland, Mississippi. One Iceman, three tires, two newly re-opened businesses, and an unknown power source (think about that one) later, the food was delivered by His hand.
Ed Ditto
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I Cut Hair
Tentatively, through the door, into the, clamor and hubbub stepped the nervous, confused, and somewhat bedraggled young woman. People were scurrying around packing food and water and paper things into boxes which were handed past her to others who gave them to the people in the passing cars.
“May I help?” she heard and turned toward the comfortable voice.
“Uh, I need a scoop.”
So it started. A scoop and a broom don’t really look a lot like “seeds.” Lunch with smiles and hugs, listening ears and faces filled with empathy don’t seem to fit the term “water.” All these topped off with caring hearts, and love left with her - with Lori. She wanted to clean the flood muck out of her barber shop so she could get back to making a living. She will learn there is more to clean out than muck in a barber shop. There is more to life than living.
Teams in various color shirts including orange - all clothed in the brightness of the humble, servant Savior - cleaned the flood muck from her house and the trees from her yard. The dirtier they got, the more they reflected Him. His light shined on her. Tenderness radiating from Him - through them - melted her nervous confusion and hope peeped past the clouds of despair that had darkened her before. A tiny, wondering smile struggled past formerly tight lips. The crushing weight of caring for the son with his wheelchair and life support lifted a bit. Getting the young daughter to and from school became just a little less of a load. Clearing muck doesn’t look much like watering.
Friday morning, a couple of weeks later, three people in orange shirts saw the barber shop freshly painted red, white, and, yes, blue. Hand-painted, giant white letters shouted from a rough plywood board, “Relief and Church workers, THANK YOU.” The door agreed with the sign that proclaimed, “OPEN!” She looked up in surprise from the piles of bright, new barber shop stuff. A big smile. All the dark clouds had dissolved and there was a twinkle in her eyes. She did the hugging this time. “Look! The lights work! Monday we are re-opening.” The scoop was no longer needed.
“How is your house? What about your girl and boy? Is your husband still working seven twelves?”
A half-hour of excited and happy talk later, “Come to the church building and have lunch with us.”
“I have to go look for a new stove and washer and dryer.”
“Come to the building for lunch – a group of God’s children in Colorado sent an eighteen-wheeler loaded with appliances. Maybe some are still available.”
It started with a scoop and a broom, then lunch. She called her Dad to come with his truck and haul home the new appliances. Seeds from Colorado?
Friday after lunch, the orange shirts went to a house where others clad in the glow of the humble Savior had been before. The old woman’s naturally curly hair was damp with sweat as she dragged yet another limb to the pile on the street.
“How are you doing?” started her on a warm and long conversation.
“Just look at all this trash. It all washed here from the church that the storm surge destroyed. I used to go to that church, but now…..”
“Come have an early Thanksgiving dinner with us Sunday at the Long Beach church building. Bring your husband.” Seeds.
“I don’t know, he is getting the barber shop ready for Monday.” A clue?
“Is your daughter’s name Lori?”
All were surprised and happy – Lori’s mom! Her husband had not yet returned from hauling the appliances for Lori.
The three in orange shirts drove toward the next house amazed at how the humble Savior works.
A few blocks west, where teams had worked, the door was open. Rolls of carpet showed that final work was happening in the house. He came to the door – more surprises. The two ladies in orange shirts had worked clearing out his girlfriend’s trailer and he had been there.
“Can you get her a message?”
“Give it to her yourself, she is here now.” Redundant, yes, but, even more surprises.
As the ladies chatted, the two men talked. “When do you start back to work?”
“Monday.” A clue?
“What do you do?”
“I cut hair.”
The digital picture, taken just a few blocks away, of the old woman posed with the man in the orange shirt brought tears and, yes, more surprise. “That’s my Mom!”
“Come eat Thanksgiving dinner with us on Sunday.” Seeds.
Three people in orange shirts, leaning on the hood of the car, looking at the Gulf of Mexico, and surrounded by the devastation of Katrina, didn’t even try to control their emotions. There are times when the humble Savior’s hand is so obvious it is, well, humbling. The orange clad teen-aged girl saw an old man and a wonderful lady cry openly in complete awe at what He had done. He had tied the pieces together for a family - and a family. He said He would be there where two or three are gathered. Three people in orange shirts were sure of His warm presence. The real surprise is that the three of them were surprised by what He had done.
Lori and her son and daughter enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday. There, some of her customers welcomed and embraced her and an elder who needed a trim became a new customer. She is connected. Seeds are planted They are being watered.
The people in the orange shirts hugged her and her kids. They cried, left the scoop in Long Beach, and went home wondering what other surprises He has in mind.
Ed Ditto
“May I help?” she heard and turned toward the comfortable voice.
“Uh, I need a scoop.”
So it started. A scoop and a broom don’t really look a lot like “seeds.” Lunch with smiles and hugs, listening ears and faces filled with empathy don’t seem to fit the term “water.” All these topped off with caring hearts, and love left with her - with Lori. She wanted to clean the flood muck out of her barber shop so she could get back to making a living. She will learn there is more to clean out than muck in a barber shop. There is more to life than living.
Teams in various color shirts including orange - all clothed in the brightness of the humble, servant Savior - cleaned the flood muck from her house and the trees from her yard. The dirtier they got, the more they reflected Him. His light shined on her. Tenderness radiating from Him - through them - melted her nervous confusion and hope peeped past the clouds of despair that had darkened her before. A tiny, wondering smile struggled past formerly tight lips. The crushing weight of caring for the son with his wheelchair and life support lifted a bit. Getting the young daughter to and from school became just a little less of a load. Clearing muck doesn’t look much like watering.
Friday morning, a couple of weeks later, three people in orange shirts saw the barber shop freshly painted red, white, and, yes, blue. Hand-painted, giant white letters shouted from a rough plywood board, “Relief and Church workers, THANK YOU.” The door agreed with the sign that proclaimed, “OPEN!” She looked up in surprise from the piles of bright, new barber shop stuff. A big smile. All the dark clouds had dissolved and there was a twinkle in her eyes. She did the hugging this time. “Look! The lights work! Monday we are re-opening.” The scoop was no longer needed.
“How is your house? What about your girl and boy? Is your husband still working seven twelves?”
A half-hour of excited and happy talk later, “Come to the church building and have lunch with us.”
“I have to go look for a new stove and washer and dryer.”
“Come to the building for lunch – a group of God’s children in Colorado sent an eighteen-wheeler loaded with appliances. Maybe some are still available.”
It started with a scoop and a broom, then lunch. She called her Dad to come with his truck and haul home the new appliances. Seeds from Colorado?
Friday after lunch, the orange shirts went to a house where others clad in the glow of the humble Savior had been before. The old woman’s naturally curly hair was damp with sweat as she dragged yet another limb to the pile on the street.
“How are you doing?” started her on a warm and long conversation.
“Just look at all this trash. It all washed here from the church that the storm surge destroyed. I used to go to that church, but now…..”
“Come have an early Thanksgiving dinner with us Sunday at the Long Beach church building. Bring your husband.” Seeds.
“I don’t know, he is getting the barber shop ready for Monday.” A clue?
“Is your daughter’s name Lori?”
All were surprised and happy – Lori’s mom! Her husband had not yet returned from hauling the appliances for Lori.
The three in orange shirts drove toward the next house amazed at how the humble Savior works.
A few blocks west, where teams had worked, the door was open. Rolls of carpet showed that final work was happening in the house. He came to the door – more surprises. The two ladies in orange shirts had worked clearing out his girlfriend’s trailer and he had been there.
“Can you get her a message?”
“Give it to her yourself, she is here now.” Redundant, yes, but, even more surprises.
As the ladies chatted, the two men talked. “When do you start back to work?”
“Monday.” A clue?
“What do you do?”
“I cut hair.”
The digital picture, taken just a few blocks away, of the old woman posed with the man in the orange shirt brought tears and, yes, more surprise. “That’s my Mom!”
“Come eat Thanksgiving dinner with us on Sunday.” Seeds.
Three people in orange shirts, leaning on the hood of the car, looking at the Gulf of Mexico, and surrounded by the devastation of Katrina, didn’t even try to control their emotions. There are times when the humble Savior’s hand is so obvious it is, well, humbling. The orange clad teen-aged girl saw an old man and a wonderful lady cry openly in complete awe at what He had done. He had tied the pieces together for a family - and a family. He said He would be there where two or three are gathered. Three people in orange shirts were sure of His warm presence. The real surprise is that the three of them were surprised by what He had done.
Lori and her son and daughter enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday. There, some of her customers welcomed and embraced her and an elder who needed a trim became a new customer. She is connected. Seeds are planted They are being watered.
The people in the orange shirts hugged her and her kids. They cried, left the scoop in Long Beach, and went home wondering what other surprises He has in mind.
Ed Ditto
Atheist Disaster Relief - Ed Ditto
The Editor,
Recently, as our church group drove into Gulf Port, Mississippi, we noticed something that surely is most unusual. All the churches along highway 49 from north of Gulf Port on down were doing some kind of disaster relief. Some churches were doing so much "business" that the National Guard was directing traffic. As we went deeper into the area and the devastation became worse, one of our group made this not so tongue-in-cheek observation.
He said, "I see all the churches' disaster relief happening but I haven't seen the Atheist Disaster Relief sign."
Another of the group wryly commented, "Let's find a major news network reporter and ask them. They will know where it is."
It is interesting that while we were in Waveland clearing hurting people's yards, raking the muck out of houses, and delivering survival kits and hugs door-to-door, we neither saw the Atheist Disaster Relief place nor a network news reporter. Perhaps they are all in New Orleans waiting to report on something really important.
Ed Ditto
Recently, as our church group drove into Gulf Port, Mississippi, we noticed something that surely is most unusual. All the churches along highway 49 from north of Gulf Port on down were doing some kind of disaster relief. Some churches were doing so much "business" that the National Guard was directing traffic. As we went deeper into the area and the devastation became worse, one of our group made this not so tongue-in-cheek observation.
He said, "I see all the churches' disaster relief happening but I haven't seen the Atheist Disaster Relief sign."
Another of the group wryly commented, "Let's find a major news network reporter and ask them. They will know where it is."
It is interesting that while we were in Waveland clearing hurting people's yards, raking the muck out of houses, and delivering survival kits and hugs door-to-door, we neither saw the Atheist Disaster Relief place nor a network news reporter. Perhaps they are all in New Orleans waiting to report on something really important.
Ed Ditto
Ask, seek, and knock. Receive, find, it is opened. - Ed Ditto
The day was experimental. How ready were the Long Beach folks for follow-up visits? Jesus’ volunteers had been there before clearing, cleaning, loving. Today started the going back to see how they were doing, to find out what else they need, to invite them to the assembly, to more directly present Jesus.
Mary, Lisa, and Ed prayed hard before starting. “Father, use us today. Shine through us.” Others were praying, too.
Jesus said, "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”
Using a borrowed pass to get across the tracks, the day began with a sobering and unsettling look at the twisted, mangled, uprooted, crushed remains that are what is left of Long Beach south of the tracks. Mary and Lisa had not been there. None of the three will ever be able to erase what they saw. Dan Holder said it best, “Nature doesn’t hurt nature. Nature hurts what man makes.” Mary, Lisa, and Ed can testify that nature hurt the things made with man’s hands here.
The first visit was on Valentine Street – one block north of the tracks. The Work Order said the Lander’s house had been worked on and the yard had been cleared. Roger and his wife were “elderly.” Roger answered the knock with a huge smile. Perhaps the orange shirts ?
In the den, with introductions done, Roger, the Marine, said they had just finished their morning Bible reading and prayer. He said, “Just when you knocked, we finished praying. One thing we prayer for was that God would send some Christian people to talk with us today.”
Ask, seek, and knock. Receive, find, it is opened.
Ed Ditto
Mary, Lisa, and Ed prayed hard before starting. “Father, use us today. Shine through us.” Others were praying, too.
Jesus said, "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”
Using a borrowed pass to get across the tracks, the day began with a sobering and unsettling look at the twisted, mangled, uprooted, crushed remains that are what is left of Long Beach south of the tracks. Mary and Lisa had not been there. None of the three will ever be able to erase what they saw. Dan Holder said it best, “Nature doesn’t hurt nature. Nature hurts what man makes.” Mary, Lisa, and Ed can testify that nature hurt the things made with man’s hands here.
The first visit was on Valentine Street – one block north of the tracks. The Work Order said the Lander’s house had been worked on and the yard had been cleared. Roger and his wife were “elderly.” Roger answered the knock with a huge smile. Perhaps the orange shirts ?
In the den, with introductions done, Roger, the Marine, said they had just finished their morning Bible reading and prayer. He said, “Just when you knocked, we finished praying. One thing we prayer for was that God would send some Christian people to talk with us today.”
Ask, seek, and knock. Receive, find, it is opened.
Ed Ditto
Friday, November 18, 2005
A "Moment of Clarity" or "A Life Changing Event" - Jamie Burns
Last weekend I went back to Long Beach, Mississippi. The devastation from Hurricane Katrina still remains. This was a return trip for me. I went four weeks ago, just four weeks after the storm. It wasn't quite as messy this time; the sludge was dried up, and much of the debris has been picked up. As I look back upon my visits to this torn area, I see clearly what matters. Let there be no doubt that there are certain life truths that all quickly notice, no matter what worldview they subscribe to -
- Life is both short and fragile
- People are precious
- Things are disposible
- Nothing is permanent: not people, nor things.
- Life changes in just an instant
In Bayside Park, Byron and Deena of Bay St Louis couldn't get out of town. The only choice they has was to ride the storm out. Byron is a gulf war vetern, who though a car accident has lost the better part of his right leg. He and Deena have been together for nearly 10 years. They live in an old beat up trailer, but when the storm was getting close, their landlord told them to move to one of his other properties, which happened to be a house. In short, when the storm surge made it to the house, they went outside, and this was probably a good thing. The way I understand it, a wave higher than 30 feet hit, and then the water level rose up to roof top level. Deena didn't know how to swim, but was able to hang on to to a bed headboard. Byron was able to drag them to a house, where they would wait out the flood on the roof, like so many others in the neighborhood. In the house they were standing on lived an elderly woman. Byron had to bust open the aluminum vent on the gable of the house to break into the attic to get in to get her out. In the process, he busted seven teeth, which eventually would need to be removed. Byron and Deena's story is all too normal.
I see people wandering through their houses looking for just a few last treasures. Lost husbands, dads, moms, children. Busted houses. Bent cars. It's all gone, broken, and torn. But everyone has a story to tell. Everyone wants to listen to a story.
Day after day, house by house, moment by moment - you hear the stories. I have seen people learn these stories and relearned this lesson second hand, and yet I have learned these lessons first hand. I have had my own Momements of Clarity, yet I find that my life lacks the change or reality demanded by these momements. I somehow loose focus or traction from my intentions and these Life Changing Events are nothing more than a Brief Moment of Clarity. I look back to the tragedies in my own life and remember those moments of clarity. I remember crying out to God and the promises I made, and now I look and remember... I haven't really changed yet... I'm still holding on... I still haven't really learned...
I keep collecting my toys, although they are mostly electronic. I tend to preactically place my job over my family, even though I have absolutely intention in my heart to do so. I forget how fragile people are, and tend to stomp all over the people I love the most. In many regards, I tend not to live like life is short. I almost never share God's story with anyone - and I never feel comfortable doing so. I choose what is convenient or comfortable at the moment, rather that what is best for all over the long haul. Where is my clarity? I resisted the change.
When I read and heard these words as a child I thought how odd, how crazy, never me... and yet here I am quite guilty of the most simple...
Though seeing, they do not see;though hearing, they do not hear orunderstand. In
them is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah: "'You will be ever hearing but never
understanding;you will be ever seeing but neverperceiving. For this people's
heart has become calloused;they hardly hear with their ears,and they have closed
their eyes.Otherwise they might see with their eyes,hear with their
ears,understand with their heartsand turn, and I would heal them.'
- Jesus, the Christ, Matthew 13
I know God accepts me, loves me, and all of that. Yet, for all that he hasdone for me, in view of all of that mercy, I desire to be all more. It's notjust what I do, but what I want, and what I want to become. I've been reminded of a few of lifes lessons. I want to change. I don't want this hurricane to be a brief moment of clarity that is here today and gone tommorow. I want to change. I want Katrina to be a life changing event.
God Bless
Driving to Harvest - Jamie Burns
Eight weeks ago Katrina hit, then a few days later Rita followed, leaving as a sign placed along US highway along the beach best expressed it, a "Blvd. of Broken Dreams". Three men from the church I attend, Paul, Ed, and Steve compelled by compassion for these storm vicitms loaded up and went to the Mississippi Gulf coast to figure out what could be done to help these people. These men have spent much time explaining to the church, talking to us, and in fact much time talking to me. They see so many souls. Souls that need help. Souls that need an ear to hear, an arm to lean on, help to face the tasks ahead, and food. During my first trip there in October many desperately needed food to eat, but now they all need a different kind. Some of them are starting to wonder about that.
"FEMA doesn't care about us. Why do you?"
"We live way back here. We're the last ones to ever get anything. Now that the storm has come, we are better off now than we have ever been. God has been sending his people back here to us. Why?"
"How come the churches can take care of us quicker and better than FEMA?"
"Why did you come all way from Alabama to do this and my daughter won't even come help me from across the street?"
People in Mississippi are asking questions. People from all over America, people from Huntsville, AL drove right into the storm torn towns and begged for a question. The question has been asked. Now it's time for us to be ready with our answer!
Do you not say, 'Four months more and then the harvest'? Itell you, open your
eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest. Evennow the reaper draws
his wages, even now he harvests the crop for eternal life,so that the sower and
the reaper may be glad together. Thus the saying 'One sowsand another reaps' is
true. I sent you to reap what you have not worked for.Others have done the hard
work, and you have reaped the benefits of theirlabor."
- Jesus, the Chirst (John 4)
As a child I expect that the day would come when I would have enough right answers, maturity, and whatever else came with age that I could go reap that harvet. As I got a bit older I saw a little success in reapping, but as I got married and had kids I saw that those around me in the world getting cynical and jaded. I have long since begun to doubt whether there is a harvest around me or not. I suspect now that the problem is that I need to open my eyes a little more. I suspect that if I was to follow the example of Paul, Ed, and Steve; I too, may find a harvest. It may not be as grand in scale; but, the world is full of people God has prepared for his kingdom. The difference between that group and me may just be vision. I just need to go out and open my eyes.
The question now becomes, how will I respond to the harvest in Madison County, Alabama? Do I continue to remain paralyzed because I live amoung those not yet ready for the harvet; or, do I do what three wise me did in Fall 2005?
Will I get in my car and find the harvest?
It’s Show Time - Lisa Burgess
"It’s about time you guys showed up!”
The lone man peddled by on his bicycle along I-110 in Biloxi, muttering this sarcasm at the guys in the orange shirts as they added another wheelbarrow of house-gutting rubble to the decaying roadside pile. Mistaking them for FEMA workers, the man’s disgust was obvious over their seemingly delayed arrival to offer help in this poor neighborhood.
Our church team chuckled. They knew that the man misunderstood their identity. They knew they were under no obligation to EVER show up, and they were only here now, nine weeks after Katrina’s visit, as a completely voluntary initiative.
But later, the words of the Bicycle Prophet penetrated deeper. Is he right? Is it about time we guys showed up, too? Wasn’t the call put in weeks ago, maybe 2000 years ago, for us also to show up after a storm?
It will be said on that day, "Behold, this is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us. This is the LORD; we have waited for him; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation." Isaiah 25:9
The victims of Hurricane Katrina aren’t just idly waiting though; they are also working, make no mistake about that. They’re feeding their neighbors, they’re cleaning up their streets, and they’re doing so with great determination. But as they wait and work, they’re also watching, watching to see who shows up next.
God, perhaps?
Yes. I’ve been there, and I saw Him. He is showing up through His children that drive for 7 hours to sleepy Mississippi towns to clear out a tree-strewn yard, to tear down mildewed sheetrock, and to share a heartfelt prayer. He is showing up every time someone looks a Mississippi stranger in the eye and affirms that yes, we really care. He is showing up under the tents that continue to offer free food and water (and the ever-important bleach) to anyone who needs nourishment and a quenched thirst and a hope for a brighter day.
But God is showing up elsewhere as well.
He showed up for me in my refrigerator. My neighbor with four small children couldn’t abandon her responsibilities here to spend time on the coast, so she showed up by cooking a pot of stew for my family while I was gone, and left a casserole in my fridge for my first night back home.
When an anonymous donor wrote a $4,000 check to Wal-Mart to mail bundles of $25 gift cards to residents of Long Beach, Mississippi, no strings attached, you better believe it was God showing up.
And when a young mother came to the church building in Long Beach needing a shovel, she went home with not only a shovel, but a new oven and dryer as well, all because God showed up in Colorado, inspiring someone there to ship a tractor-trailer full of appliances to freely distribute to those in need in a water-ravaged home.
Yes, it’s about time we showed up. And what a parade we are.
by Lisa Burgess
The lone man peddled by on his bicycle along I-110 in Biloxi, muttering this sarcasm at the guys in the orange shirts as they added another wheelbarrow of house-gutting rubble to the decaying roadside pile. Mistaking them for FEMA workers, the man’s disgust was obvious over their seemingly delayed arrival to offer help in this poor neighborhood.
Our church team chuckled. They knew that the man misunderstood their identity. They knew they were under no obligation to EVER show up, and they were only here now, nine weeks after Katrina’s visit, as a completely voluntary initiative.
But later, the words of the Bicycle Prophet penetrated deeper. Is he right? Is it about time we guys showed up, too? Wasn’t the call put in weeks ago, maybe 2000 years ago, for us also to show up after a storm?
It will be said on that day, "Behold, this is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us. This is the LORD; we have waited for him; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation." Isaiah 25:9
The victims of Hurricane Katrina aren’t just idly waiting though; they are also working, make no mistake about that. They’re feeding their neighbors, they’re cleaning up their streets, and they’re doing so with great determination. But as they wait and work, they’re also watching, watching to see who shows up next.
God, perhaps?
Yes. I’ve been there, and I saw Him. He is showing up through His children that drive for 7 hours to sleepy Mississippi towns to clear out a tree-strewn yard, to tear down mildewed sheetrock, and to share a heartfelt prayer. He is showing up every time someone looks a Mississippi stranger in the eye and affirms that yes, we really care. He is showing up under the tents that continue to offer free food and water (and the ever-important bleach) to anyone who needs nourishment and a quenched thirst and a hope for a brighter day.
But God is showing up elsewhere as well.
He showed up for me in my refrigerator. My neighbor with four small children couldn’t abandon her responsibilities here to spend time on the coast, so she showed up by cooking a pot of stew for my family while I was gone, and left a casserole in my fridge for my first night back home.
When an anonymous donor wrote a $4,000 check to Wal-Mart to mail bundles of $25 gift cards to residents of Long Beach, Mississippi, no strings attached, you better believe it was God showing up.
And when a young mother came to the church building in Long Beach needing a shovel, she went home with not only a shovel, but a new oven and dryer as well, all because God showed up in Colorado, inspiring someone there to ship a tractor-trailer full of appliances to freely distribute to those in need in a water-ravaged home.
Yes, it’s about time we showed up. And what a parade we are.
by Lisa Burgess
7 days - Stuart Whiting
House guttin' time in Biloxi. We meet up with Paul Warren, minister at the Division St COC. Operations appear to be in full swing at their building - several workers on hand and a lot of supplies to distribute. I trust the community will be blessed and the Name will be praised because of their efforts. We spend 30 mins or so getting down some trees behind the church building that suffered in Katrina's 10-ft storm surge. I don't touch the chainsaws. That would be bad. I just push wood around and cut-up with Bennett (an 11 yr. old from Central on the trip with his Dad); I love seeing the joy of youth. Soon, we are following Paul to a house where we will be working for the rest of the day.
I realize where Paul is leading us, the only neighborhood in Biloxi that I can say "Hey, I know this place." Mind you, I've only known it for a grand total of 7 days. The faces awaiting us are familiar, also. This modest home belongs to Fred and Evelyn Bradford. I actually remember 2 out of 3 of those names as I re-introduce myself to them - and maybe I get partial credit for spitting out "Carolyn"? I met them 7 days ago, too. That first encounter was quite unnerving ... "when are you coming to do our house?" - But it wasn't really a question; it was much more like a demand. Well I guess the Lord decided it would be in "7 days." On the 7th day He rested from Creation, but today He chose to set me to work.
Even before finding out that the Bradford's owned this home, I already knew I had an important mission for the day. Near this house lives the only other man I know in Biloxi. I will definitely pay him a visit sometime today. So, during our lunch break several hours later, I dismiss myself and walk 3 doors south along this otherwise anonymous street. There he is, exactly how I had expected to find him - hour upon hour sitting on the patio outside of what remains of his house. A place so dear to him that he even continued to sleep in it several days after he received his FEMA trailer, before it was the least bit inhabitable by any standard. It is now just a shell, 2 x 4's with a roof - I recognize every inch of this residence, we helped gut it last week. His face lights up as he recognizes the orange "Relief Team" shirt coming at him from across the yard ... "Frank, remember me?!" Smiles all around. Certainly, I must have known Frank Brown for longer than 7 days.
I can sense the desperation behind his eyes as we talk about life during the past 10 weeks, but he won't verbalize it. He is unable to wrap his hands around the enormity of what has happened (who can?), and yet he recognizes that it is "His plan." Not Frank's plan ...no, he's using "His" with a capital-H .. The one that describes the Master, as Frank frequently calls Him.
Isn't that faith? When it doesn't make sense to me even to the point of an ongoing disquiet in my inner man, but I trust anyway? In the short time I spend with him, he is visited by 4 different neighbors. Frank is undoubtedly the "rock" in this part of town; the one to turn to for advice and comfort and help. And oh by the way, he is 70-something with no means of transportation, no possessions of any significant monetary value, failing eyesight, and he's pretty sure his heart will give out at any moment. But I had a lot less to offer Frank than he was able to give me. Oh, to be like Frank.
We work hard the rest of the day. I see a change in Evelyn this afternoon. I'm not analyzing her, not looking for it, but it is there nonetheless. She's helping inside now. Sweeping. Talking. Even laughing. This isn't the "hard" woman who put her index finger 3 inches from my face 7 days ago. Maybe she's realizing what prompted us to return?
Might Fred be different, too? I decide it's time for an extra water break, so I can go and sit with Fred. Fred can't help inside. He has a difficult time moving. His legs don't work like they did long ago.
"Was that your son's picture I saw hanging in the hallway?" I knew the answer before he gave it. The standard school photo of a very handsome young man dressed in light blue who was around 9-years old was just about the only thing still on the walls when we had arrived. I had taken great care in removing it and placing it in the "Keep" stack several hours earlier. Unlike almost every other possession this elderly couple owned, it was spared Katrina's wrath - it "lived" a mere 2 inches above the 7 ft. water line that is easy to discern in each of the 5 rooms in the house. Below this line - destruction, black & green mold, damp paneling, mushy insulation, sadness. Above it - undamaged ceilings, spotless crown molding, hope. "What's above my water line?", I wonder to myself.
Yes, I think Fred is warming up to this rag-tag group who has come from far away for the 2nd time. He speaks fondly of his son, “... Mitch was a marine, a good one. Mitch died in his 40's from high-blood pressure problems ... Yes, Mitch had a child, his son is in California with the Air Force ... And I showed you the picture of my 2 Great granddaughters, right? ...”
“No, sir, you haven't” (I think Fred's memory is going the way of his legs, unfortunately).
From his pocket he removes what probably amounts to everything he owns - a wallet stuffed with numerous scraps of paper of various shapes and colors and a lot of paper money (I doubt he has a 401k earning 10% right now or ever has or ever will). He knows where to find what he is looking for .. Destinee wears the adorable Pooh costume while Tiffany has been doomed as the gloomy Eeyore. They are adorable. I'd guess 7 and 4. He turns it over to prove that he got the names right, “... you see, right there, Merry Christmas 2004, Destinee & Tiffany, Little Rock, AR ... but, they're in California now ... their dad's in the Air Force.”
His memory is certainly poor, but I think Fred knows what's above his water line.
I don't know what will happen to these 3 people. I doubt I will ever see them in Biloxi again. The Bradford's have adamantly decided they will move north to Meridian by next Hurricane season. Frank will hold vigil over his kingdom, but even if I were to return to the area at some time in the near future, I have a feeling he'll have passed away by then. He's tough, but the reality of the demanding life he is now enduring coupled with his medical problems will wear on him quickly.
The one truth I do know from my experience with them is that I am a different person - perhaps I am a new Creation after 7 days.
--Stuart
I realize where Paul is leading us, the only neighborhood in Biloxi that I can say "Hey, I know this place." Mind you, I've only known it for a grand total of 7 days. The faces awaiting us are familiar, also. This modest home belongs to Fred and Evelyn Bradford. I actually remember 2 out of 3 of those names as I re-introduce myself to them - and maybe I get partial credit for spitting out "Carolyn"? I met them 7 days ago, too. That first encounter was quite unnerving ... "when are you coming to do our house?" - But it wasn't really a question; it was much more like a demand. Well I guess the Lord decided it would be in "7 days." On the 7th day He rested from Creation, but today He chose to set me to work.
Even before finding out that the Bradford's owned this home, I already knew I had an important mission for the day. Near this house lives the only other man I know in Biloxi. I will definitely pay him a visit sometime today. So, during our lunch break several hours later, I dismiss myself and walk 3 doors south along this otherwise anonymous street. There he is, exactly how I had expected to find him - hour upon hour sitting on the patio outside of what remains of his house. A place so dear to him that he even continued to sleep in it several days after he received his FEMA trailer, before it was the least bit inhabitable by any standard. It is now just a shell, 2 x 4's with a roof - I recognize every inch of this residence, we helped gut it last week. His face lights up as he recognizes the orange "Relief Team" shirt coming at him from across the yard ... "Frank, remember me?!" Smiles all around. Certainly, I must have known Frank Brown for longer than 7 days.
I can sense the desperation behind his eyes as we talk about life during the past 10 weeks, but he won't verbalize it. He is unable to wrap his hands around the enormity of what has happened (who can?), and yet he recognizes that it is "His plan." Not Frank's plan ...no, he's using "His" with a capital-H .. The one that describes the Master, as Frank frequently calls Him.
Isn't that faith? When it doesn't make sense to me even to the point of an ongoing disquiet in my inner man, but I trust anyway? In the short time I spend with him, he is visited by 4 different neighbors. Frank is undoubtedly the "rock" in this part of town; the one to turn to for advice and comfort and help. And oh by the way, he is 70-something with no means of transportation, no possessions of any significant monetary value, failing eyesight, and he's pretty sure his heart will give out at any moment. But I had a lot less to offer Frank than he was able to give me. Oh, to be like Frank.
We work hard the rest of the day. I see a change in Evelyn this afternoon. I'm not analyzing her, not looking for it, but it is there nonetheless. She's helping inside now. Sweeping. Talking. Even laughing. This isn't the "hard" woman who put her index finger 3 inches from my face 7 days ago. Maybe she's realizing what prompted us to return?
Might Fred be different, too? I decide it's time for an extra water break, so I can go and sit with Fred. Fred can't help inside. He has a difficult time moving. His legs don't work like they did long ago.
"Was that your son's picture I saw hanging in the hallway?" I knew the answer before he gave it. The standard school photo of a very handsome young man dressed in light blue who was around 9-years old was just about the only thing still on the walls when we had arrived. I had taken great care in removing it and placing it in the "Keep" stack several hours earlier. Unlike almost every other possession this elderly couple owned, it was spared Katrina's wrath - it "lived" a mere 2 inches above the 7 ft. water line that is easy to discern in each of the 5 rooms in the house. Below this line - destruction, black & green mold, damp paneling, mushy insulation, sadness. Above it - undamaged ceilings, spotless crown molding, hope. "What's above my water line?", I wonder to myself.
Yes, I think Fred is warming up to this rag-tag group who has come from far away for the 2nd time. He speaks fondly of his son, “... Mitch was a marine, a good one. Mitch died in his 40's from high-blood pressure problems ... Yes, Mitch had a child, his son is in California with the Air Force ... And I showed you the picture of my 2 Great granddaughters, right? ...”
“No, sir, you haven't” (I think Fred's memory is going the way of his legs, unfortunately).
From his pocket he removes what probably amounts to everything he owns - a wallet stuffed with numerous scraps of paper of various shapes and colors and a lot of paper money (I doubt he has a 401k earning 10% right now or ever has or ever will). He knows where to find what he is looking for .. Destinee wears the adorable Pooh costume while Tiffany has been doomed as the gloomy Eeyore. They are adorable. I'd guess 7 and 4. He turns it over to prove that he got the names right, “... you see, right there, Merry Christmas 2004, Destinee & Tiffany, Little Rock, AR ... but, they're in California now ... their dad's in the Air Force.”
His memory is certainly poor, but I think Fred knows what's above his water line.
I don't know what will happen to these 3 people. I doubt I will ever see them in Biloxi again. The Bradford's have adamantly decided they will move north to Meridian by next Hurricane season. Frank will hold vigil over his kingdom, but even if I were to return to the area at some time in the near future, I have a feeling he'll have passed away by then. He's tough, but the reality of the demanding life he is now enduring coupled with his medical problems will wear on him quickly.
The one truth I do know from my experience with them is that I am a different person - perhaps I am a new Creation after 7 days.
--Stuart
Have You Seen Jesus My Lord - Kim Story
Have You Seen Jesus My Lord?
Have you seen Jesus my Lord
He's here in
plain view
Take a look open your eyes
He'll show it to you
She joined the group at the table, clean clothes and wet hair after a hard days work. The fatigue stole her appetite and she was content just to sit and listen to the stories being shared. She should get up and get some water, but maybe in a little while. It’s good just to sit. A brother turns to her, “Are you alright? You’re not eating.”
A smile. She picks up her fork and takes a bite to prove she’s fine. The food tastes better than she anticipated. Maybe she is hungry after all. Another brother joins the table. Before he sits, he scans the group and notices she doesn’t have a cup. “What can I bring you to drink?” His kindness at that moment stings her eyes with a tear.
She chides herself for forgetting her hairbrush. A sister offers to share hers. Throughout the weekend, she never has to ask again. That sister is always ready to hand it to her at the right times.
A brother begins to lead a devotional. She wonders how this will be received by her husband. She hopes it won’t be too preachy or refer to some really obscure account that only the most diligent Bible scholars would know. As she hears of Esther and remembers the Veggie Tales movie, she smiles and catches her husband smiling back at her. “I know this one!” his eyes exclaim. She thanks God for leading this brother today and ditto for brother who shared yesterday.
As they work to remove outside debris and the walls of the house inside, she sees an 11 year old young man who’s working separately from his dad that day. And she sees a brother show him how to hold the tool and gently guide him through the work. She sees the beaming face of that boy who knows he’s making a difference.
As her hand stings from the broken blister, she begins to wonder how she’ll keep the infection away. A brother offers to walk with her across the street to find some Hydrogen Peroxide. He could have just told her to go. It was only a short walk. But he went with her.
She joins a brother and sister who graciously accept a hot cup of coffee on a muggy day. The sweat is already streaming, but somehow they knew that it was important to this man to reciprocate with kindness for the work he saw they doing for his neighbors. By accepting that coffee, they accepted him.
She went to Mississippi to share compassion with others. She hoped that she would have the opportunity to share her faith with others. And while she was there, she saw Jesus her Lord.
By Kim Story
Boulevard Of Broken Dreams - Kim Story
In Gulfport, overlooking the beach I notice an empty lot. Most of the debris from Katrina has already been cleared from this spot. But there stands a forgotten toilet. Next to it, there’s a large spray painted sign which reads Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
In my mind’s ear, I hear the lyrics from a group called Green Day:
…I walk this empty street On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams Where the city sleeps and I'm the only one and I walk alone… My shadow's the only one that
walks beside me. My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating. Sometimes I wish
someone out there will find me. 'Til then I walk alone...
A Long Beach single mom, overwhelmed with the task ahead of her asks us, “Why are you here? I cannot understand why you would come here from so far to help strangers. It doesn’t make sense! Is there anything I can do to repay you? What can I do?”
As we explain God’s love to Peggy, my mind’s ear hears those same words uttered when I first saw the cross. “Jesus, Why are you here? I cannot understand why you would come here from so far to help strangers. It doesn’t make sense! Is there anything I can do to repay you? What can I do?”
A Waveland woman speaks of her husband who’s suffered such an incredible loss of family members, health and home. “He’s always been such a loner. His childhood was really rough so he doesn’t get close to people. But somehow, he has allowed Paul Gibbs past that wall. Whenever they talk on the phone, we all know he’s been talking to Paul because he’s different after their conversations, at peace.”
Michelle proudly points out her sister, who’s house was gutted about a month ago. Madonna approaches us with a beaming smile. “Look how different she is now! Isn’t she beautiful and happy?” We are all grateful for the emotional recovery she’s making.
Before we leave, we offer a prayer for this family and their neighbor from across the street who has joined our conversation. We also clarify the directions and appearance of the church building (sans sign) so they can find it next time.
As we drive back to Long Beach, I remember the thoughts Stuart Whiting shared that morning. Ester was put into a position of royalty for such a time as this. God was going to save his people and she had to choose whether she would join His plan or run in fear. God also has a plan in Mississippi right now. God put Paul in that smelly, wet house to reach Bubba.
Gulfport, Long Beach, Waveland, you are not alone. We care. We’re here to help. Someone out there is finding you, one person at a time, to let you know we care. We’re working along with you to clean up your homes. We’re praying with you. We’re offering you the comfort we have received through knowing our God. As we pile into our vans and trucks to return to Huntsville, you are not alone on your Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
“… I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Before long, the
world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you
also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and
you are in me, and I am in you. Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he
is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I
too will love him and show myself to him.”
John 14:18-21
by Kim Story
Just a beginning...
This is the beginning.... In August, Huricane Katrina hit. In September its was Rita. Three men - Paul Gibbs, Ed Ditto, and Steve Lowery from the Central Church of Christ in Huntsville, AL felt compelled to respond. They loaded up and went went to the Mississippi Gulf coast. Many of their spiritual brothers at the Central Church of Christ have followed them down to lend aid to the people in this area. The kinds of aid have varied widely. The stories and effects of the stories are numerous. The purpose of this blog is to capture this story.
If you were a part of this story, please post your story, your thoughts, your heart, whatever. This blog is open to all who were a part. You may post an original work or comment on on of these "journal" entries. All that we ask is the following -This is a Christian community - Please keep the comments and content in those bounds.
If you were a part of this story, please post your story, your thoughts, your heart, whatever. This blog is open to all who were a part. You may post an original work or comment on on of these "journal" entries. All that we ask is the following -This is a Christian community - Please keep the comments and content in those bounds.
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