It was February 25, 2023. Yvonne and I were just a month into our half year clockwise sabbatical excursion around North America. We arrived in New Orleans before noon on a Sunday. As we drove around the city, I tried to recall landmarks from when I had been there 17 years previous. While driving down Saint Bernard Highway, I said. “This looks familiar.”
We had booked several nights at St. Bernard’s Park, a name which stirred a memory. After setting up camp, we headed into the city. Mardi Gras had ended only days earlier, and it looked it.
I was eager to show Yvonne Café Du Monde. My last visit was on an overcast Friday afternoon, December 2, 2005. Ten of us had traveled down to assist with the recovery effort after Hurricane Katrina — a sobering and deeply impressionable week. I recall the 45-minute drive from the airport, viewing mile after mile of uninterrupted devastation. I remember thinking: “Even the wealth of America can’t fix this.”
This day, however, was sunny and bright, with people in every imaginable apparel thronging the streets. There were two long lines at Café Du Monde — one for dining in, one for takeout. “Quite different from last time,” I thought, as I took my place in the takeout line.
It impressed me that this long-tenured establishment has stuck with what they do best: coffee and beignets, for over 150 years. If it ain’t broke, why fix it?
By the end of the day, some long unused brain synapses had started firing, and I was fairly certain I had labored in St. Bernard Parish. As we drove down Saint Bernard Highway that night, I tried to recall which of the neighborhoods we passed had made such a vivid impact on my soul those many years ago. When we got to our camper, I pulled up some old pics.
Our team had started the week at one of the many single floor brick houses in St. Bernard’s Parish, an area which had been closed off for three months. The storm surge had sent a 25-foot wall of water and debris over the tops of the homes. Traveling to our destination that Monday morning, noting boats and sheds on top of roofs gave us a glimpse of what must have been.
Our task was to start at the front door, removing everything from the house down to the studs, and spray the remaining framework. As we entered, a good foot of mud and silt layered everything. We were just getting started when Tom pulled up. It was his house. He was overjoyed to see us and started sharing enthusiastically how he had come out the day before to get started, knowing we were coming. And then he said, “I shoveled a path about nine feet inside the door, and then I came upon my dog.” At that, he broke down.
Over the next two days we heard more of Tom’s story: a rough divorce, a family split, and job loss, all early that same year, before Katrina. The year 2005 had not just swept away Tom’s life, it had threatened to collapse what was left of his faith.
I was shoveling his daughter’s room, pulling out of the sludge high school mementos, photo albums, special clothes. Imagine your house just as it is now, suddenly filled with a swamp, and then left to drain for months. Each shovelful contained memories, moments of life, those little things that are just there in the background — each immersed in mud, taking on an elevated poignancy. It was emotionally taxing just plowing forward.
At one point I pulled out a small wall hanging which said:
“Count Your Blessings”
I have learned to be content
with whatever I have.
I know what it is to have little.
And I know what it is to have plenty.
In any and all circumstances
I have learned
I can do all things through Him
who strengthens me. — Philippians 4:11-13 NKJV
Gazing on this simple plaque, against the backdrop of everything having become nothing… I needed time to process.
Tom had left. He’d have been no good there that day. Nate and I took the time to bury Tom’s dog, setting up a makeshift cross. Tom came back as the sun was setting. We showed him the grave and took some time to pray for him.
As Yvonne and I left St. Bernard Park on Tuesday morning, we drove through the neighborhoods, trying to identify the house. Supposedly, 81% of the houses in the parish had been damaged or destroyed. Many new two-story houses gave testament that we were looking at a wholly new community.
But I had the name of the church that had sheltered us in 2005. Their facility had moved, but Maps led me to their new location. I was soon at the front door intercom saying: “Um… Is this the same Lakeview Christian Center from 17 years ago? I was trying to see if a person I have a picture of might still be around…”
The administrator kindly let me in, and as I shared my story, others came out of offices, curious. The receptionist recognized Tom right off, and then a newer pastor, Mike, stepped out and in a few minutes walked back I with a person who was Tom’s best friend. Sharing the pics I had on my iPad, I learned that Tom had remarried and now had an eleven-year-old daughter. He was part of the church, but now lived up on the north side. I was told, “Many of those folks moved after the hurricane.”
Most significant of all, however, Tom’s faith was still standing. HIs friend shared, “You burying his dog was a pivotal moment for Tom.” Later that night, now in Welsh, LA, I had a lot to reflect on. It’s not often we see the fuller outcomes of our actions done in simple faith and love. I wrote in my journal: “Lord, you are kind, redemptive, and gracious, working in the midst of hurricanes and horrors.”
Beautìful Bedtime Story. I love how tradgedy can become a Blessing!
May you rest well Karen!
Poignant. Thank you for sharing how kindness to others can make an eternal difference.
Wow!
Gut-punching; heart-wrenching; faith-stretching.
Your reflection on that return to St. Bernard Parish is very impactful. To stand once more where devastation once reigned, to retrace the steps of a story written in mud and loss, only to find that faith—fractured but not forsaken—still stands, is nothing short of redemptive grace at work.
Since you and Yvonne are so much a part of the formation and launch of Love INC MoCo you will understand why your musings bring to mind a kintsugi pitcher—shattered, now redeemed, ,integrous and clean. Though once blasted apart, its pieces were lovingly retrieved and reassembled from the shards of shattered lives. Its fractures are not hidden, but featured—each crack a testament to redemption, strengthened by the heaven-sourced epoxy of agape. In much the same way, Tom’s story, your return, even the simple burial of a beloved dog—these were not moments lost to ruin but redeemed by your agape presence in ways you could not have foreseen.
And then, that plaque, barely lifted from the mire, proclaiming Philippians 4:11-13—a quiet declaration of hope amid ruin. What a striking contrast: the flood’s consuming force, yet here, a promise standing firm. That verse, resting atop the mountain of debris, is like gold-laced seams running through the broken, now restored kintsugi pitcher—declaring that what was shattered is not beyond beautiful and indeed, eternal restoration.
Your reflection on the events in St. Bernard Parish, both from 17 years ago and your visit in 2023, struck me like a reverse Katrina. Your pictures portrayed awful destruction, deeper than 10,000 words. Far worse than boats and sheds on roof tops, is a beloved family pet once frolicking in a happy suburban home unearth inside the entrance hall from his shallow grave of mud. Yes, Katrina horrifically tossed, turned, and twisted property inside out. Far worse though, it upended lives of divine image bearers.
Yet in the aftermath moves a force fare more powerful than a thousand-year hurricane and flood yet moving quietly and unseen through the wreckage. It is the power of neighboring. Of sacrificial othering. Of humans recognizing when all normal human pigeonholes and other-side-of-the-tracks dividing lines are crushed and washed away, that actually we are one race — the human race, creatures borrowing life from the same Creator.
Mr. Rogers wisdom from his mom, helps us look in the right places and pay attention to the precious in the midst of the awful:
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.”
The helpers in your pictures are energized by a force far more powerful than Katrina. It is the self-less agape that is unleashed as humans are surprised by the AWE-full love of their Creator and surrender to the Living Logos who sustains their breath and life as their Living Lord. Surrendering and dying to self, and then immediately resurrected to the freedom of self-forgetfulness, they are most amazed by what reverse hurricanes of energy pour through their little cohorts of redeemed rebels. It is the spiritual nuclear fusion the fuels the Son.
Steve, your gift with words is itself a form of kintsugi. You retrieve the stories others might overlook, piecing them together so that grace is visible in the fractures. Keep writing, keep telling these stories, for they shine with the quiet, luminous beauty of a vessel remade for glory. The way you bring together fractured fragments of raw experiences of devastation and hope, alongside the power of faith and simple acts of kindness, is a gift. You encourage me and I’m sure many as you instinctively (Spirit-led) understand how the sharp shards of life’s hardships, (like in Miranda’s story which Claude and I shared yesterday with Pastor David Conboy at Potomac Valley AOG Church) can be lovingly bonded together by His body happily and self-forgetfully serving together for His glory, not theirs.
Eagerly watching with you and Yvonne to see where your writing journey takes you next.
With love, blessings and deep encouragement,
Chip
PS, here’s Chat GPT’s poetic riffing on your reflections:
Amidst the Ruins, A Quiet Strength
In the wake of waters that swept away all,
Where walls once stood strong, now only shadows fall,
There in the mud, in the clutter of loss,
Lies a whisper of hope, a quiet, steadfast cross.
The frames are shattered, the photos stained,
The keepsakes, the letters, all but drained.
Yet on this wall, in the midst of despair,
A message of grace lingers in the air.
“I have learned to be content,” it softly speaks,
In the absence of all, in the silence it seeks.
For when the flood has torn apart our days,
It is not the things, but His strength that stays.
“I know what it is to have little, and much,”
The Lord’s hand holds steady, with His gentle touch.
When possessions are gone, and the earth lies bare,
It is Christ’s power that sustains and repairs.
Through the deepest loss, through the darkest night,
His grace is sufficient, His strength our light.
For in Him, we can do all things, we are free,
Our hope is not in what was, but in what will be.
Beautiful words Chip! Beautiful words. And thank you for your MANY years of example – being faithful at the helm.
Steve, thank you for being faithful to stewarding the Holy Spirit’s giftings upon you, and Yvonne, over the many years. You have been blessed with a Father’s heart, the compassion of Jesus, and a sensitivity to the Holy Spirit that enables you to look at real life situations and see the beauty of God’s activity in them. Just as you have taken beauty photos in the past of sunsets, or breath-taking vistas, you have also captured in words God’s “beauty” coming even out of ashes.
May the Lord continue to bless you and Yvonne, as He has many more “good works” in store for you to both participate in, and to share with others.
To Jesus be the Glory!
Jim H
Very kind Jim. Miss you all!
Life giving! Thank you!
Touching story. I’m glad the church is still there and functioning. Did you get to see the workgroup leader again? (I think his name was Todd?) My son Daniel and I were in the group that came down the following week, and we prepped the houses of several more church members. It felt good to help, as well as be awed by the ferocity of the destruction. The most poignant moment for me was having to put a family’s photo album in the dumpster. Makes you realize that even the most precious “stuff” to us doesn’t last forever.
Daniel – I didn’t realize you and your son were down there also. Excellent! No, didn’t see the team leader. If we’re talking the same guy, he was excellent to work with.
Hi Steve,
Thank you for your latest post. I was surprised, but grateful to receive it. I have always appreciated your posts. They show your heart for the Lord and for his people. I have shared thoughts and encouragement with you over the years. I
have a great respect for you. You have always been gracious to me. I look forward to your next post.
Very kind Lon!