Category Archives: Disaster

A Perfect Prayer

The information that flowed from the 20th anniversary of 9/11 touched me more deeply than any in recent years.

Reading the transcript detailing the plans of Flight 93 passengers to overpower their hijackers brought the awe of their bravery back to me in fresh waves. I have purchased and am reading Let’s Roll, the book by Todd Beamer’s widow, Lisa. She describes being surprised by an invitation to attend the President’s address to Congress and to the nation, and especially by the repeated ovations she received: an outpouring of gratitude for actions that no doubt spared the destruction of either the White House or the Capitol. I was moved by the desire of so many to say, “Thank you” to one of the heroes, in the person of his grieving widow.

I have also been touched by the role of Lisa Jefferson, the Verizon Airfone operator who handled Todd’s call from Flight 93, giving him information on the other hijackings and the devastation they had brought. Todd and several other passengers and crew relied on her nerves of steel as they made their decision which we will always remember by the last words she heard from Todd: “Are you guys ready? Let’s roll!”

I have read from Mrs. Jefferson’s account in an interview five years later, that the phone had to be taken from her hand some fifteen minutes after it went silent, even after she was informed that Flight 93 had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. She was still calling Todd’s name.

She, Todd, and the others had hoped that this could somehow end well. She had promised to stay with him until it was over. She could not lightly walk away from that firm commitment. Her book about the experience is Called: “Hello, my name is Mrs. Jefferson. I understand your plane is being hijacked.” I have purchased that book, also.

In reading between these two women’s stories the other night, another event from that week in 2001 ran through my mind. You would not have known of this one unless you worked at Ellisville State School, a residential facility in Mississippi serving individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. I was Coordinator of In-Home Services at the time, having gotten that position after ten years working in one of the four units on the main campus. Though I had begun working with individuals in the community, my office remained on the facility’s sprawling grounds.

The Director had called a chapel service for those whose duties allowed time to attend. We all felt so broken, though Mississippi is a very long way from New York, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Washington, D.C., or Pennsylvania. I once had voiced my lack of desire to ever visit the Big Apple with the words, “I haven’t lost anything in New York City.” By the evening of 09/11/2001, I knew I had lost much there: they were my brothers and sisters in many ways, though I had never seen them, and would likely never meet their families.

I had been asked ahead of time to say the closing prayer for the service. As it proceeded, I sat back in one of the little wooden pews, admiring the stained glass windows in the small chapel building. It was used at that time for services on Sundays for the people who lived in the facility.

My memory fails me as to all who spoke or what was actually said, but I recall the theme being of hope, the need to be united, and that God is not shaken by what shakes us, therefore we need to turn to Him as the source of help for ourselves and our nation. I appreciated the administration of our facility recognizing our need to come together.

As the service drew toward closing, I felt a stirring I could not dismiss. What was happening within me felt unique and somehow separate from the events unfolding around me. I knew I needed to tune in to the direction God would have my prayer take when my turn came.

I am of the Apostolic Pentecostal faith. Thirty-five years ago God did a work in my understanding of what it means to live for Him, and after I repented and my sins were washed away in Jesus’ name as I was baptized in that only saving name, I was filled with the Holy Ghost as the disciples in the Early Church were filled. By God’s grace and mercy I have walked in that manner of living for God since then and strive to walk daily in the Spirit, as the Apostle Paul said:

What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore, glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God’s. 1 Corinthians 6:19-20

Thus, as I was approaching my time to contribute to this service I sought to submit my heart and will to God for the prayer He would have come out of my mouth. Many options were available to me: pleas for God’s mercy, comfort, direction, courage, understanding, and peace. He is the source of all these.

But when I was at last called upon and stood to bow my head and pray, none of those words would come. If you have experienced praying in the Holy Ghost, you will understand that I had two options as I opened my mouth: obey what God would have me say or quench the Spirit. I had no desire to do the latter, and the former required overcoming any fears of what others would think of a prayer that was outside the main stream. At last, I realized the only words to utter without quenching the Spirit were these:

“I REPENT!”

I know that I said it loudly and clearly, for I remember the anguish of spirit that accompanied the cry of my heart for myself and my nation. I don’t remember anything else I said in the prayer, or whether I was moved to speak in tongues during it. I only have the sense that it followed the lines of acknowledging, like the prophet Daniel once did (Dan. 9:4-19), my sin and the sin of our nation that had brought us to that hour, our need to receive God’s cleansing by His mercy and to take on His righteousness. It was a perfect prayer for that hour. Once I felt the Spirit had lifted, I ended the prayer and the service concluded.

Outside the anointing that brings boldness we can sometimes wonder how our actions will be perceived by any who do not understand. The comments I recall were positive, as acknowledging the need for raw honesty in the sight of God.

The prayer I felt to utter for the group that day remains valid. We face many more obstacles now than could have been imagined in that week, and our own response still needs to be, “I repent! God have mercy on me, on our nation, on our leaders, and on the future of our children and their children.” Repentance must bring the desire to seek God and to obey what we see in His Word.

I urge you to take time to look deeply into your own heart and pray your own prayer of repentance, then ask God how He would have you change your direction. It is time to reach for God’s Word, to obey the Gospel and keep His commandments with the Spirit living and moving in us. The end, of which I feel 9/11 was only a warning, is drawing very near.

The Flood: Our story

“It may actually get into our house this time.”

“Our house”  is a place I have visited since childhood,  home of a beloved cousin just far enough ahead in age to marry while I was a young girl, and to have never failed to provide adventures when we’ve gotten together.

Memories flowed in, from the small shed she and her husband lived in on the land they’d saved up to buy while they worked along on their house. I spent a week with them in what seems like about a 6′ X 8′ space in my mind, just as happy as could be. I could almost trace every inch of the original floor plan in the 1800 square foot cozy home. Over the years it seemed nearly every time we’d visit something had been added or updated or developed a little further.  Not sure how many square feet it had come to. They didn’t brag, and I didn’t ask. Every change had a plan, a reason to be included: a space for family get-together’s, plenty of room for the grandchildren,  little touches that together created an atmosphere many family members grew to consider a second home, even those of us several hours away. There are roots that have gone down there over the years.

Multitudes of memories. . .

“Well, keep me posted.”

I hadn’t even called about flooding. I had no idea any was expected. I was calling to let her know results on my daughter’s medical test. She was concerned about that. I was calling to see if she and her husband wanted to drive two hours to celebrate her aunt’s (my mother’s) 80th birthday over lunch the next weekend.  They would do that sort of thing in a heartbeat: drive a couple of hours to meet us, eat, visit, and then drive back home.  They have done it for years, pretty much spoiling all of us with how easy they make it look to sacrifice for their extended family..

Our conversation was interrupted by a somewhat frantic call to her husband from their daughter whose home is next to theirs.  She was alone at home while they returned to Denham Springs from New Orleans. I heard snippets of the conversation from his phone.

Roads and streets leading to their home had been abruptly closed, the daughter reported. My cousin had to stop again as someone had come up to their window — as they sat stuck in traffic — telling them the interstate ahead was already closed in spots and some routes were being diverted.  This was Friday morning.

When we resumed talking, it was with her assurances they would get to their daughter if they had to get a boat to do it, and that it would all be OK.  After all, “God’s got this,” she confidently affirmed.

She rehearsed their plans for moving business-related equipment to her brother-in-law’s house on higher ground so they would be in position to respond to the needs of their gas line customers once the water receded.  They would be fine to stay in their homes: she and her husband in the second story they had added a few years back; their daughter in her house built four feet off the ground.  These are people who–if anyone does–know how to prepare for just about anything, neither foolish nor over-confident.

After we hung up, I began, as I often do when unusual weather is pending, to scan my weather app for updates in that area. I came across this:

Flood forecast screenshot

That upgrade from “minor to record severity” in the forecast flooding alarmed me a bit, but they are people who it seemed to me had handled so much already in their life-times, and I had no doubt they would know how to stay safe in this.  Still, I was praying and checking, following their updates on Facebook.

The mood was what I would describe in our area when there is a hurricane approaching: check the supply of candles, get some bottled water, buy some Spam if you really must, but otherwise, it will be OK when the wind stops blowing. Over two hours north of the Gulf Coast, that had worked well for us most of the time. But then there was Katrina.

When I went to bed Friday night I was confident they would be able to recover quickly from whatever damage might be done with the water they were told to expect.

I woke the next morning to this picture from their daughter’s front door, the one four feet off the ground:

Front door view of flood.jpg

I sent a text to her mom. They had indeed slept upstairs just to be on the safe side, she replied, but awakened to find the refrigerator floating in the kitchen, water pouring in at the doors, and wooden floors buckling.

“The doors won’t open. I am about to wade to a window and try to get out.”

No more illusions about this being just another water event common in south Louisiana. No more hopes for a few inches of water that would be a pain to clean up.

Clearly it was time for them to not just get out of the house, but to go as far as they could away from there, in my view. But I knew it was not what they would do. I knew that in a few minutes, one more boat would be hitting the water as they went to check on their neighbors, and soon somebody else would be pulled to safety.

I tried to be patient, watching Facebook, knowing there was little time to chat.  When I could stand it no longer, I checked back with their daughter.

“Are ya’ll OK?”

“I am turning in circles in my living room.  Dad told me I need to get out, but I can’t even think what on earth I should try to take.”

Decisions she had never conceived of having to make now had to be reached in a few minutes’ time.

“What do I do about my great aunt’s chairs she left me? The little special things? Do I take clothes? I absolutely have no idea! This is just crazy!”

I tried to be consoling, but acknowledged I could not imagine what she was going through.

“A dog just jumped out of his owner’s boat in front of my house and there was no way he could go back for him with the current. He is just out there barking and pitiful but I can’t get to him. I can’t do anything! So, no, we are NOT OK!”

When all I could think to say began to sound hollow in my own ears,  I was about to let her get back to her crisis, when it occurred to me there was one more thing I could offer.

“Let’s take a minute to pray before we go.”

As we prayed over the phone, Heaven’s touch came down, and I felt some peace at least come into my heart, and believed some dawned in hers as well.

I won’t post the image of her mom wading through water to her armpits to get back into a boat, as she left the only home her children had known growing up, the refuge for any who needed a place to stay, the recovery site for multiple extended family members who had suffered horrific accidents or life-altering illnesses over the years (because they have always been willing to stretch themselves for those they loved and opening their home was only natural). In short, she was leaving the central hub of our family’s memories, and a haven we knew would be there for us, too, if we needed it.

I did not breathe any easier until 1:00 p.m. when the text came that they had been picked up by the brother-in-law, whose house was safely above the flood, the one where the equipment had been moved. At least they could pass the night comfortably before seeing what had become of their homes.

“I’ve got a little baby in here: please just take my wife and kids!”

That was only one of the stories they related when we talked later that afternoon. One of the shocked residents of their neighborhood had called out for rescue by their boat and many others, pleading for just his family to be taken. The sharp “No!” in reply had not been understood to mean that the father would not be left behind. He only heard a refusal to help, and immediately cried, “At least take the baby!” The National Guard had them safely out a few minutes later.

I tried to picture the sheer force of the raging water as she talked of pulled muscles she had sustained just getting through it, and I had no way to imagine less hearty people managing to push through those waters.

There was only a hint of concern in that conversation mid-afternoon that the water was continuing to behave unexpectedly, and a suspicion evolving that it could potentially continue to rise.

“Do you have a boat where you’re staying big enough to hold all six of you if it does?”

“No, there’s only a small boat here.”

Still mostly confident they were safe, I did begin to pray harder that all would go well.

By 7:30 that evening they were trying to find a way out. Facebook began to light up with questions about what roads were open near them, and comments exploded with family and friends in the area who were still unaffected trying to find a route for them to drive out.

There was none.

Was there someone who could reach them by boat? These folks had rescued others all day.  Couldn’t someone help them?

I remained confident that would happen shortly.  These people are survivors. They have a strong network of family and friends: people who would scale tall buildings or swim deep oceans if  necessary to help them. Rescue teams like the one they had been a part of earlier, locals with boats and big hearts, had been out all day plucking people from danger.

Someone would be helping them soon.

Only they couldn’t.  Night was falling–a terrible time for water and uncertainty to be rising.  Those Good Samaritans’ boats were not equipped with the kind of lighting required to navigate murky waters that rendered streets all but invisible in the daylight, held multiple barely-submerged hazards, and raged with a current almost impossible to fight.

Post after post, share after share, desperate comment after desperate comment from friends and family near and far pleaded on their behalf. It felt absolutely incredible to embrace the idea that these people who would give their lives for any of the people out there were not going to be pulled from this danger.

Officials had to order those who would love to help out of the water until daylight.

When the only remaining option was to access the emergency management system, the next Facebook  post was,

“911 busy.”

Livingston Parish Emergency Operations Center had been relocated when their own offices flooded, but numbers were circulating to directly contact the National Guard, Sheriff’s Office, and Homeland Security, along with the private individuals operating when they could, to request rescue. Over fifteen numbers were on the list.

8:10 p.m. “I have no idea what to do.  No one is answering the phone.”

Could a network that large be getting overwhelmed?

8:19 p.m. “I finally got in touch with the Sheriff’s office.  They put us on a list to rescue. They said there are hundreds ahead of us.”

Posts of friends and family on dry ground, near and far, intensified trying to find a way themselves, and tagging other individuals to try and help. It still seemed that one of those options must be the one that would save the day. But lead after lead turned into dead ends. Fear began to knot up in my stomach.

Thus began a night none of us will forget.  Family who would have given a kidney for them had to just wait and watch the posts about the water rising:

“Sitting on the kitchen table with feet in the chairs,  water now two inches over the chairs.”

“Still waiting. Water waist-deep and continuing to rise.”

“Power’s out. You wouldn’t believe the spiders, roaches and other bugs, frogs, and snakes in this water.”

Still, there was that sense of humor:

“…At least we are all OK and making some really funny memories.”

But these were people who weren’t spring chickens for the most part, several of them in their sixties, a couple with heart conditions, one with asthma and a history of pneumonia, all having exhausted themselves during the previous day. The fatigue and pain were real enemies. How long could they stand this?

It was easy to feel frustration that nothing seemingly was being done.  Come daylight, we would learn how many thousands of rescues took place that night.  It is hard for that to even sink in. Tens of thousands of lives were being saved by local authorities, National Guard, and Coast Guard personnel.

It was a waiting list one could not track as it unfolded and the water continued to rise.

I lay there (in my warm, dry bed) praying.  Again. And again. And again.  Nothing changed. In the wee morning hours my prayer became “God, You could fix this.”

I have been blessed by some amazing answers over the years.  I began to feel the line had gone dead.

“A couple of us have gotten into the little boat.  When you think it can’t get any worse, it can.”  It had started to rain again.

The tone of posts from family members too far away to do any good became desperate.

“Someone please help them! They don’t deserve this!” Of course, no one deserved it, but that was a testament to the utter incredulity of family having to simply hold our hands and wait.

The conviction grew that we truly stood to lose them while we watched from our perches in Louisiana, Texas, and Mississippi, as helpless as anyone could be.

The families of thirteen people, as of this posting, did experience that ultimate tragedy.  My heart goes out to them.   I can only imagine their vigil of hoping to receive better news than what eventually, tragically came.  I learned this weekend that one was an elderly lady next door to where my family passed the night who, once she made it to safety, lay down on a couch to go to sleep, but never woke up. We continue to pray for all affected.

I expected a number astronomically higher than what it has been.  (But for the nature of the people in the area, their sense of connection to each other before this began, and the abundant waterways that meant many owned boats they were more than happy to put into service, the nation would be reeling at the death toll.) I struggled to not picture my loved ones among that number.

Day broke.  The flotilla of locals returned to the water.  By 8:00 a.m., that phase of the weekend that changed so much forever was over.

They have been back to survey the damage.

The place I have known as a peaceful refuge since childhood, that had seen water to the steps during the last record flood but not a drop inside in the forty-five years they had been there, received a full eight feet of water.

The house will very possibly have to come down. The weight of the upper floor may be buckling the compromised lower walls.  Even if that doesn’t happen, the memories of early morning quiet times in the little breakfast nook, or of the quiet strolls through a spacious garden built up over the years for themselves and their guests to enjoy, the couch where we sat to have the last heart-to-heart will have to suffice. There are specific memories for virtually every room: rooms that are now themselves only memories. We were going there for Thanksgiving again this year.

We never could have imagined our next trip would be to join the help quickly pouring in that is, just as quickly, being swallowed up in a sea of need. People who would gladly help anyone are struggling to find someone who can spare a few hours to give them assistance, as family after family after family salvages what they can and tries to prevent deeper damage from mold setting in.

It is funny how the outsides of homes so often look the same.  You know which have been flooded only by the piles of treasures mingled with torn-out Sheetrock, insulation, and flooring by the road. I learned today there are some simply living in the mud, sleeping on wet mattresses, as the mold grows. Elderly and single moms have few options.

We spent a day and a half building onto our loved ones’ pile, shaking our heads, and adding sweaty hugs to whatever words of consolation we could find.

They are deciding what to do.  When all is wiped away, recreating just what had been–at this point in life–isn’t the most practical scenario.  There will be plenty of time for talking about what we have learned from this, or why we feel it could have happened, or what God is doing in it. If there is an immediate takeaway, it would be to live every moment with those you love as though it is not only your last one with them, but your last one with the life you have known with them.

And trust God with your family, when you see Him moving as you would like Him to, and when you don’t see.