#Katrina11 + #laflood = brand new perspective

Biloxi, before and after 

Hurricane Katrina.

Eleven years ago today, Hurricane Katrina changed the landscape of the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I grew up.

As tragic as that day, the months and years to follow have been, I didn't think I could feel any more strongly about personal belongings being destroyed than I did in 2005.

I thought, "You know, I'm FROM the coast. I get the sense of loss. I'm as close as you can come to being the one who actually lost everything."

And maybe I was. Maybe. 

Or maybe I didn't realize that while being away and not being able to help in the ways I wanted pained me, just as a picture of a destroyed landscape doesn't show a 360 degree view, nor does not living in it.

Panoramic view from our driveway in Baton Rouge, 

taken this evening.

Maybe I kind of missed out on the fact that driving past debris piles daily wears on you. Seeing others' belongings sitting on their street is saddening in ways you can't describe. And hearing about diggers climbing on debris mounds is both infuriating and heartbreaking at the same time.

And there's no maybe about this one -- I certainly didn't think about the toll a mass displacement takes on hosts and hostesses during this type of crisis. "Yes, please come into my home. I want to make you feel welcome. What can I do to help you?" And then silently, surely, "How long will this last again? They're nice, but...my family needs some normalcy, man." 

Then the guilt. Everyone involved feels the guilt.

Those of us who went through it wonder what we could've done better, how we could've been proactive.

Those of us not present to help want to be there to help, even when there's nothing tangible to do, and maybe even nowhere to stay while we do the nothing that's so important for us to feel like we're doing. (This was 100% me in Katrina while I was three hours' north of my family, by the way.)

Those of us present bend over backwards to help however we can. Laundry? Dishes? A place to hang out? A meal? My home? A ride to work?

It's all over the top, and we are over the top, and our emotional barometers are full before we can ever brush our teeth in the mornings.

Each anniversary of Katrina, I reminisce on my beautiful upbringing and all the places and faces I call "home."

This year is different.

This year I'm empathizing with Nan, and all the times I offered to give her something -- you know, a basic, like a nail file, and she replied with, "Well honey, I used t'have SEVEN of 'em, but now I guess they're FLOATIN' in th' GULF a' MEXICO."

This year I'm thinking about my Mother, and her multiple washings of Nan's and others' clothes to make sure they got that "Katrina smell" out and saved the saveable clothes from ruining. (God BLESS laundry and dish washing angels!)

This year I'm thinking about Pop Ball, who diligently worked at contacting FEMA and filing insurance claims and making repairs like it was his job, and I'm thankful for a husband that is doing the same, on top of his own full-time job, plus spraying the house nightly for mold and sorting through clothes as we organize ourselves in another new place.

This year I'm thinking about the many who hosted families like my own little Maricelli bunch of Baton Rouge in their homes when they were displaced by that storm.

This year I'm thinking of all the power outages, which I am thankful we are not dealing with, and all the nasty heat on the Mississippi Gulf Coast in August '05 and in Baton Rouge in August '16, and how we are all getting so much sun, but not in an ideal way.

This year, on the anniversary of the storm that changed the landscape of my upbringing, I'm thinking about the first 18-wheelers I saw coming into Baton Rouge post-flood, and how they were all from my Mississippi Gulf Coast. And the first of still ongoing Red Cross trucks that delivered meals to my neighborhood, and how they were from my Mississippi Gulf Coast, too.

No, this memory and day aren't all about what we went through in Baton Rouge, but I'm experiencing a different sort of commemoration of Hurricane Katrina, and it's all because of the flood we just experienced and, though we [read: me] are terrified, we have been shown enormous kindnesses.

Mainly, I'm keenly aware that while eleven years ago today Hurricane Katrina changed the landscape of where I grew up, and that while two weeks ago a flood changed the landscape of my present life, I am from a resilient people, and a pattern has been set to overcome tragedy. Michael and I will not just survive; we will thrive.

Our perspective may have changed, but our resolve has only strengthened.

Of all the beliefs that remain unchanged, though, there's this: good riddance, Katrina.

Not a Good Rememberer: Katrina+10

I've never had a great memory, but this time of year, my disinterest in the past is purposeful.

In three days, it will be a decade since the most powerful hurricane of my lifetime struck not only America, but also the place I grew up. Landmarks along the entire Mississippi Gulf Coast were demolished. Beautiful homes are now slabs. Sites of childhood memories are gestured to with the opening remark, "Well, that used to be..."

Ten years is a milestone. I get that. Many places have come a long way, and some haven't, and there's a lot to talk about. Also, as sick as it is, people love a tragedy. Why else would some weirdos in New Orleans have profited off Katrina tours in the Lower Ninth post-storm?

Photo credit: Washington Post

Yes, Katrina affected many people and places I love, but I didn't even live on the Mississippi Gulf Coast when the storm hit, so I'm not sure why I'm still such a baby about seeing footage and hearing stories. But I am oddly grateful when I hear that others have similar feelings.

I guess as my cousin so eloquently posted on Twitter, "Just hearing the word Katrina makes me sick."

Exactly.

I visited New York City a few years after 9/11, and still vividly remember the rawness on some residents' faces when someone asked about their experiences around that day.

(No. I'm not even trying to compare Katrina to a deliberate act of terror by a person or group. And I am certainly not insinuating I will ever in any way understand what NYC residents felt that day or in those years to follow.)

But a horrible thing marred and scarred and tore up my beautiful home, and it's painful to relive. Every time. And when I see the concrete slabs that were once foundations of antebellum homes, I want to stand and tell all the people, "This isn't just a vacant lot! Something beautiful was here and an actual disaster ruined it! People aren't being lazy. They had to get back to work!"

I appreciate empathy and sympathy and well wishes for affected areas. I do. And I'll always be proud to tell of my hometown's resiliency and to wear the label of a place that is still valiantly rebounding from a thing so horribly inflicted upon them, and my gratitude for nationwide responders' immediacy to our situation still brings me to tears.

I think that for me, though, the prompted rememberance of Katrina is almost like when someone criticizes another's family, or upbringing, or something else literally so close to one's home. If the person deeply tied to it brings it up, it's safe. If it's CNN or a nosy tourist, ummm... Maybe not so much.

"Angel Tree" on the Mississippi Gulf Coast,
one of the many wood sculptures created from
remaining oaks by artists who donated their time.

There is, however, what I believe is an excellent and even digestible-for-me feature from the Washington Post on the Mississippi Gulf Coast by DeNeen L. Brown, and I hope it gets great exposure.

So....this is admittedly one of those times when I feel like blogging exactly equals journaling, and there is no real conclusion, but as Anna Nalick sang in Breathe, "If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside me, threatening the life it belongs to."

As for Katrina and #katrina10, well, good riddance. The storm may have flattened our landscape, but it made our hearts stronger.

Still, forgive me if I choose not to remember too much.

A Weary World.

Lately I've wondered if I'm not starting to really feel my age.

Whether fumbling with technology, shaking my head at "crazy kids," or contemplating the meaning of it all, every once in a while, it just feels like the world is getting too...heavy.

Some of this, I know, is attributed to living more life. Diseases without cures stealing one last conversation with yet another great, influential friend. Landscapes I love literally being washed away by nature's fury. The list growing longer of people I know, and people they know, who have seen war firsthand. Amazingly willing hearts aching for children, yet unable to give birth or get through an arduous process of adoption. Babies suffering from others' mishaps. Political schemes determining the most innocent lives' outcomes.

Some days, life's just not that easy to live without asking a few questions.

I don't know if that's because this pirate is looking, as Jimmy Buffet so eloquently reflected, at forty, or because the world is getting weirder.

Whatever the case, optimism can be exhausting.

I was reminded, though, while watching a performance of my all-time favorite Christmas carol this weekend, that even though this world is indeed weary, we also have incentive to get excited.

Martina McBride sings it beautifully:

Hope, I'm reminded, is so powerful.

I'm so grateful for faith -- for that divine umbrella of contentment that doesn't resolve all my questions like a fairy tale, but  instead puts them in context like only a Savior can.

In spite of all the ugly, all the weary, hope truly is as beautiful and refreshing as a new day.

What a thrill!

5 Things I'm Thankful For (Post-Isaac).

A visit from Mother Nature's roughest and toughest can remind you that it doesn't hurt to be grateful for the little things...like every second you have them. :-)

So on this post-Hurricane Isaac holiday and long weekend o' recovery (God BLESS America!), here are five things I'm grateful for:

1. Electricity. No need to expound.
2. Community. While it's painful (and slightly guilt-inducing) to know many are still without power or have damage to their homes and property, it is a wonderful relief to see communities band together to provide service in ways we sometimes forget exist. Since the last storm, that is. Churches sending non-perishables to those who can only get to their still flooded homes by boat. Non-profit workers buying tables full of service workers' meals at the only restaurant open in a washed out town. And the list goes on. Blessed are we.
3. Communication. I've lived through scarier, higher-category storms without knowing how my friends and relatives in Mississippi were faring, or if they were faring, but thankfully, our family had open communication lines during this storm. Phones worked, my parents' electricity stayed on, my uncle was able to get my grandmother to Tennessee before the storm reached the Gulf Coast -- my relief couldn't have been more palpable.
4. The work of my hands. To put it kindly, I'm an anxious person. So during anxious times, I've learned that keeping busy is more or less a survival mode for me. For that reason, I can't help but wonder if God led me to work in public relations so I could have meaningful work to do during and after these events. My nail chewing and hair twirling about the overall situation still occur, but at least I have a task. And it actually helps people. This is good, and I'm thankful for it -- moreso with each storm. Because apparently, unlike some, I'm not "mellowing with age." ;-)
5. Days of rest. See #1.

While I'm enjoying my power being back on and trying not to hem and haw about how to get the yard cleaned up with a bum foot, I realize these are selfish, subjective feelings, and my heart breaks for those who are dealing with everything that comes with natural disaster.

My prayers go out to all dealing with the aftermath of this storm, as well as those who are still trying to overcome and learn to deal with the physical, mental and emotional toll that Hurricane Katrina put the Gulf states through seven years ago.

Beside the Still Waters.

I grew up near water.

My parents live about 20 miles inland of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, but even so, water was always accessible to play in and sit by, and was super easy to get to. The beach wasn't too far away, and while it wasn't Jamaica, it was a beach. And then, of course, there were rivers and creeks galore. I was baptized by my Southern Baptist uncle in the creek near my home, and a friend's mom dubbed our senior class "river rats" because of our penchant for hanging out there.

Growing up near water, though, also means growing up near hurricanes. And flooding. And storms. They happen. They're part of it. It doesn't mean they're always fun (in adulthood, that is), but they do happen.

But as much energy and inner and outer turbulence as crashing waves can cause, there is truly nothing quite like still waters. The calmness, peacefulness, and general sound of softly lapping waves bring a feeling that nothing else can quite measure up to.

The more into life I delve, and the more birthdays I have, the more I realize that (much like the "fires" we talk about putting out so often in our work environments) we experience more of the turbulence and hurricanes and watery messes to get ourselves out of than we do the peaceful, easy feelings.

I mean, yes, I'm an anxious person by nature, but good grief. Everyone talks about hectic days, and wasn't it like 20 years ago that the song "Manic Monday" came out? So now, with email and smart phones and life at the speed of 4G light, I'm afraid Manic Mondays have become the norm for everyday...even our weekends.

That said, Psalm 23 has been comforting to this anxiety-ridden redhead lately. God promises to lead us beside still waters. And although the Psalms were written way back when, He doesn't even limit that promise to David's shepherd days (which I'm pretty sure aren't as calm as I envision them, with giants and such).

Lately, I just can't help but have my confidence be reassured that God, when inspiring David to pen the Psalms, did know that one day my own memories of "still waters" would go quite mad, thanks to Hurricane Katrina. And that water would become scary versus soothing for a while for me, and for my entire hometown and the entire Gulf Coast. And that one day, our quest for efficiency combined with our ignorance about safety and neglection to protect His creation might one day come back to bite us -- in this case, with a very nasty oil spill leading to, well, oil spill waters rather than the still waters we so long for.

So Psalm 23 has been very comforting to me, and has gently reminded me that no matter what my environment is, God can take me to a still, calm surrounding that only He can create. And that He can restore my soul, even in the presence of those who could care less about me, and who want to see me fail.

And really, that is the best kind of still water ever.

To Haiti -- from Mississippi, with love.

Political cartoonist Marshall Ramsey summed up Mississippians' sympathy for Haiti very well:

Aching and thirsty.

I made a very stupid, momentary choice to look away for just a second while driving to work yesterday and totaled my car.

Also, my year-long allergy issues are finally being resolved with the right mix of medication.

Why blog this? Truth is, today has left me very, very sore, and very, very thirsty. I cannot get enough water to drink, and all the ibuprofen in CVS's warehouse isn't cutting this achiness.

But I can't even bring myself to feel bad about that.

Not just because (thank God) no one was seriously injured, but because there is no way soreness from an airbag can compare to what the people who have actually survived Haiti's magnitude-7 earthquake are feeling right now.  And that's just physical. The emotional toll of seeing hundreds of corpses on the streets, not knowing where loved ones are or if they're alive...impossible to imagine.

And yes, I'm thirsty. But I can turn on my faucet (in my heated, clean, safe apartment) and get as much water as I need. Even if I could not do that, I could drive in my car to buy bottled water, or probably find a friend that would help. Reports from Haiti say people are fearful of dying of thirst.

Yesterday, I smelled airbag for the first time. There was powdery residue all around me from whatever's in an airbag, and I wasn't sure where my glasses were at first. But I found my glasses, and the powder didn't stay on me. Many Haitian survivors are stark white with the dusty remains of the buildings that have crumbled around them.

Some of my friends and coworkers have relatives who are sick, or injured, or in some state of unwell. I hate this for them. Bad is bad, no matter how you cut it. But my friend Skye, who is doing her culinary internship on the island of Provos, works with people whose families are in Haiti, just 90 miles away. These coworkers of hers are on Provos to make more money that they can send home to their families. And now, they have no way of contacting their loved ones to see how they are...or even if they still are.

My closest brush with destruction was when Hurricane Katrina devastated the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I grew up. There were a few days when we weren't sure about some family members' homes, and there are still changes in landscape, missing landmarks, and stark differences in how and where people live that are  constant reminders of that life-changing storm.

I didn't live on the coast at the time, though. I was three hours away in Jackson, Mississippi, and it was hard to come by, but I had access to gasoline and water to get to my family within the week.

I'm not sure if that's going to be an option for Haiti.

This situation is obviously weighing on me heavily. There are ways to help, and many of them are detailed on an NPR site that was posted this morning. I know more relief efforts have been enacted since this morning, and there will be tons of ways that we can help from where we are.

I'm saving the best way to help for last: prayer. No matter what the skeptics say, prayer does change things. Aside from the celestial benefits, it strengthens and solidifies the one who's praying, and -- pun intended -- Lord knows we occasionally need it.

Please do what you can. And be grateful for what you have. I know I am.

Case in point: I never thought I'd be saying I'm thankful for a totaled (new to me) car.

What a reality check.