May 9, 2010

Gwynna, May 9

Raising a temple in three days. Rebuilding Jericho. Burning bushes and parted seas and loaves and fishes. The Bible is filled with these crazy whiz-bang big-impact moments. Fortunately, neither God nor my father called to ask me to do anything like that.

I want to first thank Susan for reading my letter last week. I hope my exhausted, sun-drenched brain adequately conveyed the wonder I experienced. I have to apologize right off, though – while I have meditated long and hard on St. Francis of Assisi’s quote to “Preach the Gospel; if necessary, use words,” I’m going to use a LOT of words today.

Next, I want to try to thank every one of you. You sent me forth on a mission I was eager to accept, but nervous to undertake. I didn’t know anything about Mississippi except that I’d never wanted to go to the Deep South, I wasn’t too sure about spending a week in some God-forsaken town with a bunch of backwater hangers-on who didn’t have the good sense to leave when their community was destroyed, and I wasn’t at all sure what I was going to eat for five days.

Well let me tell you, I figured out what to eat – boy, did I! The ten of us did our utmost to prop up the seafood industry before it goes under, and I have plenty of recipes for next year’s Mardi Gras, oil slick or no.

But, while God did not lead me down there to create some amazing miracle, I also didn’t go just for the food. As for some God-forsaken town, I was sorely mistaken. God is in every crack and crevice, on the wind in the smell of new-sawn lumber, in the eyes of the driven locals determined to put their all and everything into rebuilding, come heck or, yes, high water. As one crew member said, “You may look at us and see a little underdeveloped city. That isn’t what we are, and that isn’t how we are going to stay. We are alive, and we thank you for helping us show it.”

The little underdeveloped city he was talking about is actually a collection of communities on the Gulf coast of Mississippi. We stayed in Waveland and worked in Bay St. Louis; the two are virtually seamless. As we drove in Sunday night from New Orleans, I was struck by the sight of completely normal, everyday America-small-town businesses not twenty yards from abandoned, storm-battered buildings, with more functioning buildings on the other side. The flip-flopping of new and destroyed, light and dark, past and present made my stomach lurch. Throughout the week, I sensed that the storm is never far from the minds of locals. It drives everything. It is more than just a reference point, it defines them.

In that definition, though, is immense pride, stubbornness, and thanks. Wherever we went, we were thanked. This was no mere, “Hey y’all, thanks for coming, come back now y’hear.” This was thanks from the gut, from deep within; thanks that has been pouring out for years and will continue to pour out as long as the help pours in. The members of these communities know they would be lost without the generosity of people like you who send people like me to sweat, shiver, burn, freeze, and pound nails and thumbs. Within that thanks, though, is also a nervousness. The torrent of out-of-town volunteers has become a stream, and is dwindling to a trickle. As the head of Mission on the Bay put it, “We are no longer the disaster du jour.” Slowly the locals are starting to volunteer. Five years on, their lives are finally stable enough that they can give to others. Like the airline instructions to put on your own oxygen mask first, they had to build their own homes, rebuild their own businesses, take care of their own families before they could reach out. They are getting there, and both Habitat and Mission on the Bay are seeing more locals at their worksites.

The excitement at those worksites is palpable. There is more work than time, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to do everything. Ours was something of a lonely group, coming just after the spring break rush and in the middle of two tornado systems and an oil spill that will surpass the Exxon Valdez. The Americorps groups that would have worked with us were whisked off to Yazoo City to help with disaster relief there. We spent our time preparing the sites for a big week, with almost 100 women raising walls and roofs after we left. Our humble progress was difficult to see, but in a way that made it even more rewarding. Our work was not glamorous, it wasn’t flashy, but it needed to be done, and we got it done.

We worked on two sites, one with just the pilings sunk and the other, the cop’s house, with just a bit of exterior work to finish before attacking the interior. I call the nearly-finished one the cop’s house primarily to make it easier to reference, but also because the homeowner, a police officer in Bay St. Louis where we were working, was on site almost every day with a paint brush, staple gun, sander, doing whatever needed to be done. I didn’t get much of a chance to chat with him, but seeing him pour his own sweat equity into the home was a powerful reminder that we were piecing together more than blocks of wood and soffits. Unfortunately, we never got to learn about the family whose home we built from the pilings to the subfloor and deck, but they, too, will put their sweat equity into their house when the time comes, swelling the ranks of local volunteers as they work off their commitment that comes with owning a Habitat house.

The Bay-Waveland chapter of Habitat is like the little engine that could. It didn’t even exist four years ago, a testament to the stability and vibrancy of the region before Katrina. It was under the wing of the Jackson chapter for several years as they got through the first massive rush of need and help. Now operating on its own, it buys up any non-flood-plain land it can afford in order to build single-family homes. In addition to these homes scattered throughout the community, the chapter has started the first of two eighty-home subdivisions. Complete with open space, playground, walkable streets, and proximity to local businesses and commuting routes, these houses will transform Bay St. Louis in a palpable, visible way. Several members of my group are already planning return trips next fall and spring, and one has declared he intends to help “finish the city.” I hope to match him nail for nail whenever I can.

The week was magical, in the sense that we were removed from life and placed in a world where everything we did was out of the ordinary. I’ve often wondered what it must have been like for Jesus’ disciples to leave their homes and their work and set off into a different world, and I think I got a taste of that. I very seriously considered quitting my job and staying down there, and would have if Susan hadn’t told me I had to preach this week. The fact that we did nothing miraculous, we got dirty and sweaty and we got annoyed with each other and we did things wrong and we were away from our friends and family made the whole thing stronger and more powerful. We weren’t some white knights riding in to save the distant princess, we were humble workers in a long line of humble workers just doing what we had to do. I felt then, and still feel strongly, the quietness of God working through me. I was preaching the Gospel with my sledgehammer, and by God I hope to never stop talking, even if sometimes, I have to use words.