I ran into God in Lakeview the other day. Or more precisely, he ran into me.
It’s not like I physically saw him, at least not in any of the caricatured forms people often think of him. There was no white beard, flowing robe or easy countenance to be found. But there were his hands and feet, hammering and sweeping their way through the muck and mold.
I found myself in New Orleans on Sunday and Monday, working alongside a team of students from Baptist Collegiate Ministry groups from around the state to “mud-out” some of the devastated homes. It was my first time to visit the city since before last year’s hurricane season.
I suppose if I had been a good little journalist, I would have stood to the side, dutifully taking notes and recording everything I saw and heard. But I think I would have missed something if I had done that.
Instead, we worked and sweated, even though we were surely less efficient than the professional construction crews that labored on the houses around us. And at the end of each day, we stepped outside and packed up, driving off and leaving filthy heaps of plaster, door frames and flooring – the things that used to make a home a home.
One might expect to feel a sense of accomplishment. After all, the progress on the individual houses was evident. The walls were largely stripped down to the studs and ready for the homeowners to begin rebuilding.
I’m not sure what the other students were thinking, but I experienced only a profound and aching despair as we drove through the city and back to the FEMA “base camp” where we were staying. It was hard to feel like I’d accomplished anything when all I could see were thousands more houses bearing flood lines and spray-painted markings from rescue teams on the outside, and, no doubt, walls covered with black mold on the inside. All I could think to myself was this: it’s worse than I thought.
It’s worse in a surreal way. The scenes there seemed all too familiar – after all, we’ve seen them repeated in the news media for six months. The real shock came with the realization that each of these toxic and unlivable houses – and each pile of worthless treasure lining the curbs – corresponded to a real person who sits waiting, uncertain, in some new city.
Sure, there are the trailblazers. “We’re coming home to Lakeview,” proclaimed blue-and-white signs in many of the yards. And indeed they are, as each white FEMA trailer stands as a testament to those folks’ resoluteness. But there are many more who can’t come back, and others who simply won’t. It’s hard to disagree with their cynicism.
And it’s almost as hard to be upbeat after two days of toiling to make a small drop in that very large bucket. That’s where God comes in.
I wish I could say Hurricane Katrina made it easier to see God. After all, New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin seemed to think so when he declared Katrina was punishment for the war in Iraq. But why the storm hit is of little concern to those who were most affected by it.
If those people are looking for God, they want to know where he is now, why they can’t get the money they need and why they’re still homeless. These are real and searing questions, and the answers might not be too easy.
But in traipsing through those empty homes and quiet streets, I began to sense there was a profound truth hiding in the chaos. As they have been for months already and as they will be for years to come, there were God’s hands and arms. They were working through the aching limbs of college students who spent long hours salvaging the homes of people they don’t know and will never meet.
I would dare say that God is at work through those construction companies, entrepreneurs, FEMA trailer-dwellers and perhaps even through the government officials who, piece by piece, press on with their impossible task. Maybe he is protecting them and giving them the courage to return, all while he sustains those who are learning more and more every day what it means to miss New Orleans.
A few times on Monday, “disaster tourists” drove by with their out-of-state license plates and plastic beads dangling from their rear-view mirrors. They slowed down, snapped pictures of us scurrying around in our white paper suits and air masks and drove away. I’m glad they came by. I hope they go home and show those pictures to their families and friends and tell them that yes, Mardi Gras was fun and no, New Orleans isn’t “back.” It’s a long way from being “back.” Whatever that means.
And I hope they return and bring their friends.
There is much to be done in New Orleans, and God is at work. If you’re not careful, he just might use you, too.
 
Josh is a mass communication senior. Contact him at jbritton@lsureveille.com