Christmas Day, 2005: Bay St. Louis, Mississippi
by Donna Bellinger
The sun rose clear this morning, making the stripped-but-still-living trees outside my window rosy pink. They look as if there is moss caught on the bare branches, but it is actually tiny tufts of new leaves coming out again. Palms that were shredded now have tight new green fans. Luxurious Sago palms seem to be even more lush for the drowning they received from Katrina’s storm surge. An almost unrecognizable bush by the walk has a perfect new white camellia on it.
We can never again be the way we were after a traumatic event. Much that we always either treasured or took for granted will be removed or transformed into something we at first lament as ruined or dead. Only after time can we see the life that continues below the surface. What we once thought defined us, made us who we are—attractive, worthwhile—has been stripped. Now what remains is the essence that God can use and nourish, that can now reflect His glory—not ours.
Lord, take what remains in me that is useful to You, and let me be Your instrument this week—and beyond—to heal, encourage, strengthen the ones You put into my life.
Katrina was a great leveler in every sense. Physical property was demolished, vanished; and social class was equalized in its wake. The million-dollar-plus home between the Harris’ family house and the Gulf was obliterated. The pool remains, and odd bits of the household: lovely hand painted chunks of china; 8” brass children figures; pieces of the owner’s 33 rpm collection; makeup; a woman’s dayplanner; a bra still flung into a bush. A seemingly untouched mansion may stand beside a modest bungalow, beside a swept-clean lot with only steps remaining. Brick houses survived—and were leveled. Cement chunks hang like beads on a rebar necklace. A dentist’s chair sits ready for the next patient, on a concrete slab.
Unscathed is the faith and hope of the Harris family. They are cramped into a small upstairs apartment over their garage while the house gets incremental repairs—from many different church volunteers, over weeks and months. Yet they still hosted and toured us four strangers, offering cake, coffee, homemade cookies.
I feel as if I have all the time I need to do everything I’m here to do.
The sun rose clear this morning, making the stripped-but-still-living trees outside my window rosy pink. They look as if there is moss caught on the bare branches, but it is actually tiny tufts of new leaves coming out again. Palms that were shredded now have tight new green fans. Luxurious Sago palms seem to be even more lush for the drowning they received from Katrina’s storm surge. An almost unrecognizable bush by the walk has a perfect new white camellia on it.
We can never again be the way we were after a traumatic event. Much that we always either treasured or took for granted will be removed or transformed into something we at first lament as ruined or dead. Only after time can we see the life that continues below the surface. What we once thought defined us, made us who we are—attractive, worthwhile—has been stripped. Now what remains is the essence that God can use and nourish, that can now reflect His glory—not ours.
Lord, take what remains in me that is useful to You, and let me be Your instrument this week—and beyond—to heal, encourage, strengthen the ones You put into my life.
Katrina was a great leveler in every sense. Physical property was demolished, vanished; and social class was equalized in its wake. The million-dollar-plus home between the Harris’ family house and the Gulf was obliterated. The pool remains, and odd bits of the household: lovely hand painted chunks of china; 8” brass children figures; pieces of the owner’s 33 rpm collection; makeup; a woman’s dayplanner; a bra still flung into a bush. A seemingly untouched mansion may stand beside a modest bungalow, beside a swept-clean lot with only steps remaining. Brick houses survived—and were leveled. Cement chunks hang like beads on a rebar necklace. A dentist’s chair sits ready for the next patient, on a concrete slab.
Unscathed is the faith and hope of the Harris family. They are cramped into a small upstairs apartment over their garage while the house gets incremental repairs—from many different church volunteers, over weeks and months. Yet they still hosted and toured us four strangers, offering cake, coffee, homemade cookies.
I feel as if I have all the time I need to do everything I’m here to do.
posted by Don Valencia at 12:07 PM
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