"When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Then our mouths were filled with laughter, and our tongues with shouts of joy; then they said among the nations, "The Lord has done great things for them." --Psalm 126:1-2
Lord, in a world where Caesar does so little, where children cry for bread and are given stones, bless these youth and those who labor with them to give real food and real hope to the bruised and battered of New Orleans.
As you restored the fortunes of Zion, so restore this lovely city. Replace her pain with promise, her nightmares with sweet and kindly dreams. Turn her cries to laughter and give her a new song to sing.
Lord, let all the world bear witness to the good you are doing here, even as politicians bicker and posture and pose. Thank you for Lisa and Jim and the youth, whose mustard seed of faith will one day grow into a large tree, giving shade and comfort to your weary children.
For all that you have done, for all that you are doing, for all that you will do, O Lord, we give you thanks. AMEN.
NOTE: Phillip Gulley, a Quaker pastor and author of the "Harmony" book series, wrote this as a prayer for our group and New Orleans. He has co-written books with author and pastor Jim Mulholland who is leading our writing workshop.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
LAMENTATIONS FOR NEW ORLEANS: By Beverly Cushman (the first of seven)
A Lamentation is a poem that deals with the bewilderment and distress felt by a person or a community in a situation of disaster that cannot be changed, like death, the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem, or the destruction of New Orleans. Unlike a Lament there is no pleading for healing, for correction of an injustice, and no sense of hope.
I dedicate these lamentations to the people of New Wilmington Presbyterian Church who are giving their time, energy, and hope to the people of New Orleans. I dedicate these lamentations to all who have gone to New Orleans to rebuild it houses, to work in healing the brokenness, and to hear the stories that must be told again and again and again...and again. I dedicate these lamentations to the people of New Orleans who live in the FEMA trailers, who struggle with insurance paperwork, and who cling to the memory of what was and the hope of what may be.
I pray that these lamentations may give voice to the people who love New Orleans.
Lamentation One
(#1 in a series of seven lamentations)
New Orleans, New Orleans, my city…my city.[1]
I have seen the breaking of your levees;
Your ramparts are as streets of mud.
A voice is heard in on the riverbank,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
NOLA is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted
for her children are no more.[2]
New Orleans has gone into exile,
She lives now among strangers
but finds no resting place.
She asks for “turtle soup”
and no one knows of it;
for “crawfish étouffé.”
They shake their heads.
New Orleans remembers,
even in the days of her affliction and wandering.
She remembers all the precious things
that were hers in days of old.
“For these things I weep;
My eyes flow with tears
For any comfort is far from me.
Who will revive my courage?
My children are scattered;
their homes are ruins
there are no jobs to come back to.”
NOLA stretches out her hands,
But there is no one to comfort her.
Her fellow citizens have turned to other concerns.
This city is a filthy remnant among them
She was “The City that Care Forgot,”
her future was secure.
She cries out, “Lord, look at my affliction,
for those who made promises have forgotten me.”
Those who were left behind groan aloud
neither bread nor water in the convention center;
no shelter or safety in the Super Dome.
“Look, O Lord, see how worthless I have become.
Look, my fellow Americans, all you who pass by,
Look and see: Is there any sorrow like my sorrow?”
Governments have become her masters,
sowing small change and promises amongst the mud and the ruins.
There is no national will to save her from her suffering.
They no longer remember her destruction,
for other disasters have taken her place.
Those who honored her have beheld her nakedness,
She, herself, groans and turns away her face.
How long, O Lord?
Why have you forgotten us completely?
Why have you forsaken us, these many days?
Restore us, O Lord, that we may be restored.
Renew us as in days of old.[1]
Let “le bon temps rouler”
1] Lamentations 5:20-21.
1] 2 Samuel 18:33b.
[2] Jeremiah 31:15.
I dedicate these lamentations to the people of New Wilmington Presbyterian Church who are giving their time, energy, and hope to the people of New Orleans. I dedicate these lamentations to all who have gone to New Orleans to rebuild it houses, to work in healing the brokenness, and to hear the stories that must be told again and again and again...and again. I dedicate these lamentations to the people of New Orleans who live in the FEMA trailers, who struggle with insurance paperwork, and who cling to the memory of what was and the hope of what may be.
I pray that these lamentations may give voice to the people who love New Orleans.
Lamentation One
(#1 in a series of seven lamentations)
New Orleans, New Orleans, my city…my city.[1]
I have seen the breaking of your levees;
Your ramparts are as streets of mud.
A voice is heard in on the riverbank,
lamentation and bitter weeping.
NOLA is weeping for her children;
she refuses to be comforted
for her children are no more.[2]
New Orleans has gone into exile,
She lives now among strangers
but finds no resting place.
She asks for “turtle soup”
and no one knows of it;
for “crawfish étouffé.”
They shake their heads.
New Orleans remembers,
even in the days of her affliction and wandering.
She remembers all the precious things
that were hers in days of old.
“For these things I weep;
My eyes flow with tears
For any comfort is far from me.
Who will revive my courage?
My children are scattered;
their homes are ruins
there are no jobs to come back to.”
NOLA stretches out her hands,
But there is no one to comfort her.
Her fellow citizens have turned to other concerns.
This city is a filthy remnant among them
She was “The City that Care Forgot,”
her future was secure.
She cries out, “Lord, look at my affliction,
for those who made promises have forgotten me.”
Those who were left behind groan aloud
neither bread nor water in the convention center;
no shelter or safety in the Super Dome.
“Look, O Lord, see how worthless I have become.
Look, my fellow Americans, all you who pass by,
Look and see: Is there any sorrow like my sorrow?”
Governments have become her masters,
sowing small change and promises amongst the mud and the ruins.
There is no national will to save her from her suffering.
They no longer remember her destruction,
for other disasters have taken her place.
Those who honored her have beheld her nakedness,
She, herself, groans and turns away her face.
How long, O Lord?
Why have you forgotten us completely?
Why have you forsaken us, these many days?
Restore us, O Lord, that we may be restored.
Renew us as in days of old.[1]
Let “le bon temps rouler”
1] Lamentations 5:20-21.
1] 2 Samuel 18:33b.
[2] Jeremiah 31:15.
Monday, April 21, 2008
THE WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA TABLE PROJECT: By Jim Moose
Background and Explanation
It is amazing to me that three years on, many of the victims of Hurricane Katrina are still clawing their way back to some semblance of normal life. Long after the media trucks left, Habitat for Humanity, Catholic Charities, and others continue to quietly and slowly help to rebuild houses and offer assistance. Churches from all over the country continue to send mission groups to help with construction. A recent trip by our local church brought back a report that has sparked an idea.
One of the people our assistant pastor worked with in New Orleans was an older woman who had just moved into a Habitat house that replicated the one destroyed by the flood. Every piece of furniture in her new house had been donated, and she was in tears that for the first time in three years, she had a table.
Which leads to the idea. I design and build furniture professionally. I also teach adult woodworking classes. When I hear of someone needing furniture, the creative juices start flowing. What if there was a solid wood table, that was easily built, could be readily disassembled and reassembled, and could involve various levels of woodworking skills? Finally, could it be built and shipped from Western PA to Southern LA for $100?
Eight years ago, I designed and built a trestle table for clients in Pittsburgh. It was an adaptation of the dining table from the Boone Estate in Birdsboro, PA. The original was designed to completely disassemble and pack on a Conestoga wagon heading west. It is functional, aesthetically pleasing, and can be reassembled in five minutes (please see drawings attached).
These tables (and I’m thinking in multiples) readily lend themselves to production by people with moderate woodworking skills and fairly limited shop machinery (i.e., table saw, planer, band saw, biscuit joiner, and router). None of these power tools need to be larger than what any woodworker would have in his garage.
The Plan (See one, Do one, Teach one)
In Lawrence and Mercer County, there is a good number of both professional and hobbyist woodworkers. By virtue of our industrial past, we have quite a few retired millwrights, mold makers, and pattern makers. We also have a lot of retired professional people who have taken up wood working as a hobby. A few local churches have woodworking groups, and one church has a fully equipped wood shop.
Drawing on these as a core group, I want to identify five to ten people who have:
1. above average woodworking skills
2. a workshop where five people could comfortably and safely work
3. the ability to organize and lead two or three Saturday “builds”
This core group would do an initial build at my shop, where we would learn the process of building these tables, develop the flow of the work, identify tool requirements, and recognize any problem areas. Each of these “leaders” would be given a set of plans, a set of templates for the legs, and a step-by-step assembly guide which I would provide. I would organize the procurement and distribution of the lumber. Each “team” would consist of 4-5 volunteers to do the actual building under the leader’s supervision at his shop. I would anticipate most of the work being done on Saturdays, but that is up to the team. After the build, each table would be test assembled at our shop and finished.
The Goal and What is Needed
The initial goal is to build and deliver 100 tables to Southern Louisiana by mid-June, early July. These tables would be distributed by Project Homecoming (a ministry of the Southern LA Presbytery), Catholic Charities, and possibly GNODRP (Greater New Orleans Disaster Relief Project). These organizations would be responsible for qualification of recipients and logistics of local distribution.
The capital requirements are for cost of wood, finishing materials, and transportation for delivery. Each table would require approximately 40 board feet of lumber. They would be stained and finished with Danish Oil. This is a serviceable finish that doesn’t require a spray booth, and is more durable than either lacquer or polyurethane.
The current lumber market has given us a gift in the fact that red oak is quite inexpensive relative to recent historic prices (down about 50%). Red oak is a stable good quality hardwood. It has been traditionally used for furniture, flooring and cabinetry. A majority of Amish built furniture is red oak. It will hold up well to the high humidity conditions of the deep South.
We are going to be raising approximately $7500 for the first build. With current lumber prices, truck rental, and fuel, our delivered cost per table would be around $70. We need your prayers, support, and participation.
Over the coming six weeks, with the exclusion of Holy Week, I will be sharing this idea with various local churches. I anticipate that by the first week of April, we will be ready to do the “leaders” build and get the ball rolling.
A closing note: Jean Marie Peacock, of Southern Louisiana Presbytery, is the director of Project Homecoming for Presbyterian Disaster Assistance. When I explained this idea to her over the phone, she started crying. In a subsequent conversation she explained that she personally had lost her dining table in the flood. It had been in her family for four generations.
I can be reached at: e-mail moosewoodfurn@peoplepc.com
Thank you,
Jim Moose, Moosewood Furniture
It is amazing to me that three years on, many of the victims of Hurricane Katrina are still clawing their way back to some semblance of normal life. Long after the media trucks left, Habitat for Humanity, Catholic Charities, and others continue to quietly and slowly help to rebuild houses and offer assistance. Churches from all over the country continue to send mission groups to help with construction. A recent trip by our local church brought back a report that has sparked an idea.
One of the people our assistant pastor worked with in New Orleans was an older woman who had just moved into a Habitat house that replicated the one destroyed by the flood. Every piece of furniture in her new house had been donated, and she was in tears that for the first time in three years, she had a table.
Which leads to the idea. I design and build furniture professionally. I also teach adult woodworking classes. When I hear of someone needing furniture, the creative juices start flowing. What if there was a solid wood table, that was easily built, could be readily disassembled and reassembled, and could involve various levels of woodworking skills? Finally, could it be built and shipped from Western PA to Southern LA for $100?
Eight years ago, I designed and built a trestle table for clients in Pittsburgh. It was an adaptation of the dining table from the Boone Estate in Birdsboro, PA. The original was designed to completely disassemble and pack on a Conestoga wagon heading west. It is functional, aesthetically pleasing, and can be reassembled in five minutes (please see drawings attached).
These tables (and I’m thinking in multiples) readily lend themselves to production by people with moderate woodworking skills and fairly limited shop machinery (i.e., table saw, planer, band saw, biscuit joiner, and router). None of these power tools need to be larger than what any woodworker would have in his garage.
The Plan (See one, Do one, Teach one)
In Lawrence and Mercer County, there is a good number of both professional and hobbyist woodworkers. By virtue of our industrial past, we have quite a few retired millwrights, mold makers, and pattern makers. We also have a lot of retired professional people who have taken up wood working as a hobby. A few local churches have woodworking groups, and one church has a fully equipped wood shop.
Drawing on these as a core group, I want to identify five to ten people who have:
1. above average woodworking skills
2. a workshop where five people could comfortably and safely work
3. the ability to organize and lead two or three Saturday “builds”
This core group would do an initial build at my shop, where we would learn the process of building these tables, develop the flow of the work, identify tool requirements, and recognize any problem areas. Each of these “leaders” would be given a set of plans, a set of templates for the legs, and a step-by-step assembly guide which I would provide. I would organize the procurement and distribution of the lumber. Each “team” would consist of 4-5 volunteers to do the actual building under the leader’s supervision at his shop. I would anticipate most of the work being done on Saturdays, but that is up to the team. After the build, each table would be test assembled at our shop and finished.
The Goal and What is Needed
The initial goal is to build and deliver 100 tables to Southern Louisiana by mid-June, early July. These tables would be distributed by Project Homecoming (a ministry of the Southern LA Presbytery), Catholic Charities, and possibly GNODRP (Greater New Orleans Disaster Relief Project). These organizations would be responsible for qualification of recipients and logistics of local distribution.
The capital requirements are for cost of wood, finishing materials, and transportation for delivery. Each table would require approximately 40 board feet of lumber. They would be stained and finished with Danish Oil. This is a serviceable finish that doesn’t require a spray booth, and is more durable than either lacquer or polyurethane.
The current lumber market has given us a gift in the fact that red oak is quite inexpensive relative to recent historic prices (down about 50%). Red oak is a stable good quality hardwood. It has been traditionally used for furniture, flooring and cabinetry. A majority of Amish built furniture is red oak. It will hold up well to the high humidity conditions of the deep South.
We are going to be raising approximately $7500 for the first build. With current lumber prices, truck rental, and fuel, our delivered cost per table would be around $70. We need your prayers, support, and participation.
Over the coming six weeks, with the exclusion of Holy Week, I will be sharing this idea with various local churches. I anticipate that by the first week of April, we will be ready to do the “leaders” build and get the ball rolling.
A closing note: Jean Marie Peacock, of Southern Louisiana Presbytery, is the director of Project Homecoming for Presbyterian Disaster Assistance. When I explained this idea to her over the phone, she started crying. In a subsequent conversation she explained that she personally had lost her dining table in the flood. It had been in her family for four generations.
I can be reached at: e-mail moosewoodfurn@peoplepc.com
Thank you,
Jim Moose, Moosewood Furniture
INSANE HOPE: By Jim Mulholland
The levees stand tall again
Holding back tears
Bottling up anger, diluting betrayal
Allowing many to forget
That the dry land is a lie
Made possible by pipes and pumps
Patiently awaiting Katrina’s children
Or global warming’s gradual flood
Has a rainbow really appeared
Promising disaster’s demise
Assuring God’s providence
Making rebuilding worthy
In the midst of this uncertainty
These champions of optimism still sweat
Under the levees, in the damp soil
Convinced they change the world
What should we say to them
These hopelessly hopeful heroes
That their toil is insanity
Their hope is in vain
Or should we applaud
That they do today’s deed
That they ignore tomorrow’s danger
Seeing rainbows where there are none
Holding back tears
Bottling up anger, diluting betrayal
Allowing many to forget
That the dry land is a lie
Made possible by pipes and pumps
Patiently awaiting Katrina’s children
Or global warming’s gradual flood
Has a rainbow really appeared
Promising disaster’s demise
Assuring God’s providence
Making rebuilding worthy
In the midst of this uncertainty
These champions of optimism still sweat
Under the levees, in the damp soil
Convinced they change the world
What should we say to them
These hopelessly hopeful heroes
That their toil is insanity
Their hope is in vain
Or should we applaud
That they do today’s deed
That they ignore tomorrow’s danger
Seeing rainbows where there are none
HOME: By Tawnee Hunter
The senior high youth group (shyg) from New Wilmington Presbyterian Church had the opportunity to revisit New Orleans this past January. Last June, the youth group had gone to rebuild houses in the Big Easy, although their tasks were anything but easy. This January mission trip was an opportunity to revisit and produce works of the people’s stories of New Orleans along with helping kids in the Wilson Charter School to create their own books.
For me, this trip was a unique opportunity to be with our church group, work with elementary children to share their stories, and see New Orleans. It was also a time to broaden my perspective of education and appreciate new cultures. Learning new English (actually, fun New Orleans phrases) was another highlight. Two of the most interesting to try to incorporate during the mission trip were “laissez les bons temps roulez” meaning “let the good times roll” and “lagniappe” meaning “extra-added bonus.” Generosity in both the enjoyment of life and delicious food still seems to be a common theme in New Orleans.
During the afternoon of the second day, our group had the opportunity to tour New Orleans. Driving through the city we saw complex pumping stations, reinforced levees, colorful Habitat for Humanity houses and the bright pink frames of the soon-to-be-restored homes founded by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. We continued on to see ominous Lake Pontchartrain, abandoned low income housing developments, water lines (approximately six feet high) and symbols spray painted on houses noting early rescue attempts. Some of the signs posted by home owners near their homes stating “we’re coming back” and “we will rebuild” were still in view. I began to question why the people of New Orleans would want to rebuild or even entertain the idea of constructing a new home on land that held such memories of trauma and hardship and in reality make no logical sense. But, as we continued on, I started to read the invisible signs in from of the abandoned homes that read, “Hope” and “Home.”
My daughter Leah and her Grandpa Hunter have a yearly conversation that usually begins sometime in the latter part of January (even earlier if the Steelers are not in the playoffs) and ends in April when the sun starts to trickle through the clouds. Leah will begin the diatribe by lamenting, “Of all the warm, sunny places our ancestors could have chosen, why did they settle in Western Pennsylvania?” To which her grandpa will characteristically reply, “When our ancestors came here and experienced the torturous weeks of unrelenting gray skies, they said to themselves, ‘Aye, this is it. Just like home!’”
Home: a word that connotes familiarity and comfort, the camaraderie of friends and love of family. Though during this trip my time was spent using my gifts to help others, I also received a gift. That gift was the awareness of my deep appreciation for my home in New Wilmington. Like the people of New Orleans, I appreciate my home because of the community that surrounds it. My husband and I feel privileged to raise our children and live among friends in New Wilmington; that is truly our “lagniappe.”
For me, this trip was a unique opportunity to be with our church group, work with elementary children to share their stories, and see New Orleans. It was also a time to broaden my perspective of education and appreciate new cultures. Learning new English (actually, fun New Orleans phrases) was another highlight. Two of the most interesting to try to incorporate during the mission trip were “laissez les bons temps roulez” meaning “let the good times roll” and “lagniappe” meaning “extra-added bonus.” Generosity in both the enjoyment of life and delicious food still seems to be a common theme in New Orleans.
During the afternoon of the second day, our group had the opportunity to tour New Orleans. Driving through the city we saw complex pumping stations, reinforced levees, colorful Habitat for Humanity houses and the bright pink frames of the soon-to-be-restored homes founded by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. We continued on to see ominous Lake Pontchartrain, abandoned low income housing developments, water lines (approximately six feet high) and symbols spray painted on houses noting early rescue attempts. Some of the signs posted by home owners near their homes stating “we’re coming back” and “we will rebuild” were still in view. I began to question why the people of New Orleans would want to rebuild or even entertain the idea of constructing a new home on land that held such memories of trauma and hardship and in reality make no logical sense. But, as we continued on, I started to read the invisible signs in from of the abandoned homes that read, “Hope” and “Home.”
My daughter Leah and her Grandpa Hunter have a yearly conversation that usually begins sometime in the latter part of January (even earlier if the Steelers are not in the playoffs) and ends in April when the sun starts to trickle through the clouds. Leah will begin the diatribe by lamenting, “Of all the warm, sunny places our ancestors could have chosen, why did they settle in Western Pennsylvania?” To which her grandpa will characteristically reply, “When our ancestors came here and experienced the torturous weeks of unrelenting gray skies, they said to themselves, ‘Aye, this is it. Just like home!’”
Home: a word that connotes familiarity and comfort, the camaraderie of friends and love of family. Though during this trip my time was spent using my gifts to help others, I also received a gift. That gift was the awareness of my deep appreciation for my home in New Wilmington. Like the people of New Orleans, I appreciate my home because of the community that surrounds it. My husband and I feel privileged to raise our children and live among friends in New Wilmington; that is truly our “lagniappe.”
ODE TO A SHRIMP PO BOY: By Howard Moss
After eating the mound
of potato chips heaped precariously
over all the plate,
I discovered a loaf
of fresh french bread
sliced into two
six-inch halves,
each hollowed out from the center.
The shrimp, swimming
in a thick tomato sauce,
cascaded out each half of bread
onto the plate,
covering a tangy spear
of dill pickle
in the center.
After coaxing the shrimp
back in the bread,
I picked up the left half
and sighed with pleasure
as the pleasant aroma
teased my nose.
Each bite
began with a tear
of delightfully chewy bread
between the teeth
and continued with a mouthful
of delicious shrimp
in a thick and zesty sauce.
The pickle spear,
blanketed nurturingly in po-boy sauce,
provided a fine intermission.
And the second act
was as satisfying
as the first.
of potato chips heaped precariously
over all the plate,
I discovered a loaf
of fresh french bread
sliced into two
six-inch halves,
each hollowed out from the center.
The shrimp, swimming
in a thick tomato sauce,
cascaded out each half of bread
onto the plate,
covering a tangy spear
of dill pickle
in the center.
After coaxing the shrimp
back in the bread,
I picked up the left half
and sighed with pleasure
as the pleasant aroma
teased my nose.
Each bite
began with a tear
of delightfully chewy bread
between the teeth
and continued with a mouthful
of delicious shrimp
in a thick and zesty sauce.
The pickle spear,
blanketed nurturingly in po-boy sauce,
provided a fine intermission.
And the second act
was as satisfying
as the first.
UNHINGED: By Addie Domske
Kids are rainbows.
Bright, colorful, transparent rainbows.
Tonight we read a poem by Verna Curfman:
“Dark clouds swirling over my head.
The rain shows no forgiveness.
The lightening will not stop.
The levees are failing to protect this one town
From the more devastation to come.
The winds are screaming and my heart is pounding.
When did this party turn into a nightmare –
A nightmare where my hopes and dreams were all blown a[rat
In a single blow of wind.
A nightmare where rivers are rifing and systems are failing to protect.
As we fight for last breaths with the water at our necks.
We wake up; the storm is over.
Just to start the hallucinations all over again.
For now we see the destruction, the dead and the hopelessness of the city.
Where did the parties end and the nightmares begin?”
Isn’t that amazing? It sums up everything I want to learn and reflect on during the week. What else is there to say? It is that good. Oh yeah, she’s in 7th grade.
Have you ever heard anyone say, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” like you might not be able to comprehend the next point they are going to make? Why can’t you understand now? Why do some people think that kids don’t get things? I think often times kids’ potential is underestimated. Sometimes I feel like life as an adult is so much more…informed?
I grew up with siblings that are ten and fifteen years older than I (sounds weird). Throughout my life my family has had confidence in me. They have encouraged me and believed that I was capable of doing and understanding the very things that they themselves were capable of.
I think this is why I am always puzzled when people look down on kids like they can’t understand.
It’s like Solvejg said the other day, why do we change our voice when we are talking to people younger than us? The tone of our voice is not going to make them understand any better. At the very least is will insult them.
When do you become an adult?
I mean, if we’re getting technical, then I’m a legal adult too, but I think I missed the memo explaining the “secret” some adults seem to know about life. At any rate, I always feel like I’m not included in that group of “adults” that seem to understand something secret.
Why?
What makes us an adult? When we live on our own? When we can make our own decisions? When we get a job? Make our own dinner? Do our own laundry?
When we get tired of work? Tired of paying taxes and mowing the lawn? Tired of life?
Now what good is that?
“Adults” seem to be so tired and serious.
Do I really want to be an “adult”?
Today at the school, the kids were happy.
They were excited.
They were carefree, unhinged, ready to take on the world (as well as the group of strangers that had just entered their school.) J
Why not be like that? It seems a lot more productive. More honest. More…like God intended it to be.
The other day a kid told Alex that her dog had died because she wanted to. No pity expected. No attention needed. Nothing. She just wanted to. She wanted to tell his new friend something about herself. And she was able to talk about an even that was hard with honesty and sincerity, no show.
Isn’t that great?
Wouldn’t it be great to just…be honest? To just say what you want? What you mean?
I want to be a rainbow too.
Bright, colorful, transparent rainbows.
Tonight we read a poem by Verna Curfman:
“Dark clouds swirling over my head.
The rain shows no forgiveness.
The lightening will not stop.
The levees are failing to protect this one town
From the more devastation to come.
The winds are screaming and my heart is pounding.
When did this party turn into a nightmare –
A nightmare where my hopes and dreams were all blown a[rat
In a single blow of wind.
A nightmare where rivers are rifing and systems are failing to protect.
As we fight for last breaths with the water at our necks.
We wake up; the storm is over.
Just to start the hallucinations all over again.
For now we see the destruction, the dead and the hopelessness of the city.
Where did the parties end and the nightmares begin?”
Isn’t that amazing? It sums up everything I want to learn and reflect on during the week. What else is there to say? It is that good. Oh yeah, she’s in 7th grade.
Have you ever heard anyone say, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” like you might not be able to comprehend the next point they are going to make? Why can’t you understand now? Why do some people think that kids don’t get things? I think often times kids’ potential is underestimated. Sometimes I feel like life as an adult is so much more…informed?
I grew up with siblings that are ten and fifteen years older than I (sounds weird). Throughout my life my family has had confidence in me. They have encouraged me and believed that I was capable of doing and understanding the very things that they themselves were capable of.
I think this is why I am always puzzled when people look down on kids like they can’t understand.
It’s like Solvejg said the other day, why do we change our voice when we are talking to people younger than us? The tone of our voice is not going to make them understand any better. At the very least is will insult them.
When do you become an adult?
I mean, if we’re getting technical, then I’m a legal adult too, but I think I missed the memo explaining the “secret” some adults seem to know about life. At any rate, I always feel like I’m not included in that group of “adults” that seem to understand something secret.
Why?
What makes us an adult? When we live on our own? When we can make our own decisions? When we get a job? Make our own dinner? Do our own laundry?
When we get tired of work? Tired of paying taxes and mowing the lawn? Tired of life?
Now what good is that?
“Adults” seem to be so tired and serious.
Do I really want to be an “adult”?
Today at the school, the kids were happy.
They were excited.
They were carefree, unhinged, ready to take on the world (as well as the group of strangers that had just entered their school.) J
Why not be like that? It seems a lot more productive. More honest. More…like God intended it to be.
The other day a kid told Alex that her dog had died because she wanted to. No pity expected. No attention needed. Nothing. She just wanted to. She wanted to tell his new friend something about herself. And she was able to talk about an even that was hard with honesty and sincerity, no show.
Isn’t that great?
Wouldn’t it be great to just…be honest? To just say what you want? What you mean?
I want to be a rainbow too.
WE OFFER OUR TESTIMONY: By Gary Swanson
My first day back in the ‘Big Easy’, Reverend Lisa Hickman handed me a list that read “Rainbows, juggling, garbage, football, makeup, music, toys, water, weeds, children, lines, stairs, beads and bridges.” The hurried first glance my eyes caught of this odd compilation greatly underestimated the lasting significance each word would carry.
In mid January, I joined a wonderfully energetic, talented, and genuine group of area men, women, and teens from New Wilmington Presbyterian Church who traveled to New Orleans for an unusual type of mission trip. These travelers were going to be actively involved in helping to rebuild portions of and offer hope to the people of New Orleans. A typical mission trip, right? Nope. Not even close.
Lisa followed the Cajun edict as she planned this trip, and kicked the spice up a few notches. She added a specific task of reflection. Traditionally, reflection is partnered with words like private and quiet. As thoughtful creatures we usually sneak off to some hushed area when we want to reflect. Conversely, the charge for reflection on this trip was to locate an honest internal voice, and free that voice to express itself publicly. There was to be very little focus on the final product. Instead, the focus was on the process, and letting the voice be the storyteller. It was a wide-open, intimidating range without the safety nets of structure or directive.
Distinguished author Jim Mulholland (author of Praying Like Jesus, and If God is Love, among others), expertly cultivated a vast array of remarkable written expressions through his gentle but direct manner. My role on the trip was to provide support with public expression through the use of video. As Director of Audio Visual Services at Westminster College, I was invited to be an on-site media technology resource, providing assistance (primarily to the teens on the trip), with basic recording and editing equipment, and helping people to think visually about compelling images that might enhance their expressions.
Prior to Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans had her fair share of compelling images, but now they overwhelm her, constantly pushing that pendulum between hope and despair. Foot-deep creviced mud cakes the floors of ragged remnants of homes. Colorful dwellings of hope sprout up within the miles of weeded devastation. Stairs, no longer attached to any semblance of a dwelling, now lead to a lot barren of everything but slowly evaporating memories. I cannot adequately paint in words the plethora of images that now swamp New Orleans.
More compelling, however, are the people of New Orleans and their thousands of untold stories. That is just one part of it, however. The group that I joined on this trip has gripping words and imagery that need to be shared also. Some manage to conceal it, but rarely are people truly comfortable or candid when I put a camera in their face. These folks, however, stayed true to their mission. The openness, depth and breadth of thought were striking. The teens in particular were inspiring with their frankness, creativity, zest, and sensitivity to the heavy layers that surrounded their distinctive thoughts. Addie Domske is a name that deserves special mention, as she has innumerable gifts that have added a magical flair to the telling of these stories.
These are powerful messages that deserve a view, and/or listen, and thankfully, there are multiple opportunities to do just that. The first few WOOT videos, (short for We Offer Our Testimony,) have made their debut on YouTube at this address:
http://www.youtube.com/WeOfferOurTestimony
There are more in production currently, and a compilation DVD set of all of them is in the works with behind the scenes footage and bonus materials. Also, the church is sponsoring a coffee house on Friday, March 28th to showcase both written and video works. There is a power in these messages, radiating from that obscure list of words handed to me the day I arrived in New Orleans that I’m confident will reach into your hearts as well.
In mid January, I joined a wonderfully energetic, talented, and genuine group of area men, women, and teens from New Wilmington Presbyterian Church who traveled to New Orleans for an unusual type of mission trip. These travelers were going to be actively involved in helping to rebuild portions of and offer hope to the people of New Orleans. A typical mission trip, right? Nope. Not even close.
Lisa followed the Cajun edict as she planned this trip, and kicked the spice up a few notches. She added a specific task of reflection. Traditionally, reflection is partnered with words like private and quiet. As thoughtful creatures we usually sneak off to some hushed area when we want to reflect. Conversely, the charge for reflection on this trip was to locate an honest internal voice, and free that voice to express itself publicly. There was to be very little focus on the final product. Instead, the focus was on the process, and letting the voice be the storyteller. It was a wide-open, intimidating range without the safety nets of structure or directive.
Distinguished author Jim Mulholland (author of Praying Like Jesus, and If God is Love, among others), expertly cultivated a vast array of remarkable written expressions through his gentle but direct manner. My role on the trip was to provide support with public expression through the use of video. As Director of Audio Visual Services at Westminster College, I was invited to be an on-site media technology resource, providing assistance (primarily to the teens on the trip), with basic recording and editing equipment, and helping people to think visually about compelling images that might enhance their expressions.
Prior to Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans had her fair share of compelling images, but now they overwhelm her, constantly pushing that pendulum between hope and despair. Foot-deep creviced mud cakes the floors of ragged remnants of homes. Colorful dwellings of hope sprout up within the miles of weeded devastation. Stairs, no longer attached to any semblance of a dwelling, now lead to a lot barren of everything but slowly evaporating memories. I cannot adequately paint in words the plethora of images that now swamp New Orleans.
More compelling, however, are the people of New Orleans and their thousands of untold stories. That is just one part of it, however. The group that I joined on this trip has gripping words and imagery that need to be shared also. Some manage to conceal it, but rarely are people truly comfortable or candid when I put a camera in their face. These folks, however, stayed true to their mission. The openness, depth and breadth of thought were striking. The teens in particular were inspiring with their frankness, creativity, zest, and sensitivity to the heavy layers that surrounded their distinctive thoughts. Addie Domske is a name that deserves special mention, as she has innumerable gifts that have added a magical flair to the telling of these stories.
These are powerful messages that deserve a view, and/or listen, and thankfully, there are multiple opportunities to do just that. The first few WOOT videos, (short for We Offer Our Testimony,) have made their debut on YouTube at this address:
http://www.youtube.com/WeOfferOurTestimony
There are more in production currently, and a compilation DVD set of all of them is in the works with behind the scenes footage and bonus materials. Also, the church is sponsoring a coffee house on Friday, March 28th to showcase both written and video works. There is a power in these messages, radiating from that obscure list of words handed to me the day I arrived in New Orleans that I’m confident will reach into your hearts as well.
ALWAYS WITH MUSIC: By Pat Milligan
I had that dream again last night. Our families are sitting outside laughing and talking with the neighbors while the kids are chasing each other in one of their noisy games. Down the street the wail of the saxophone completes the contentment of the evening. It’s a warm, joyous, relaxed time. My best friend and I are whispering secrets and giggling over what happened today at the drug store where we both work after school. Suddenly there is total darkness and the sound changes to banging and splintering and objects are whipped around and crashing into us. We are caught up in the dark and screams replace the laughter and the saxophone. I spin in the darkness my hands outstretched for protection. . Above me I hear a whirring sound and open my eyes to see helicopters in the dimness above me and water below. People are standing on the roofs of houses waving. Now there is no sound. I continue to whirl and all around me is confusion. Below me there are no houses, only murky, debris- filled water which keeps rising toward me. Floating on top of it are bodies of people and animals. The water keeps rising while I am beginning to fall. The odor is terrible – decay, mold, human waste. Just as the water touches my hands I awake screaming.
It’s been over two years now since Katrina. I have come back to live in New Orleans because I can’t live elsewhere. My grandma died before she could be evacuated. My family now lives in Houston. They say they will never come back. My best friend finished high school in Orlando and has a better job now. She isn’t sure she wants to come back. She is afraid the levees will not hold and that there will be another hurricane. I miss her a lot. I’m living with my aunt whose house has been cleaned up by a group of kids who came down to help us. Lots of people have come to help rebuild and clean up houses and other building. I think some of them are puzzled by my determination to stay in New Orleans. They do bring us hope though. At least I have a full time job now. That helps some. I still have the dream though! Once I went back to where I used to live. I miss it so much. But there is nothing there now but the lingering smell that permeates the whole area. The houses are all gone with only splinters of them scattered here and there. I won’t go back there again. I will remember, though, those wonderful carefree evenings when we absorbed the music and the fun and the love that once was our neighborhood.
After Louis Armstrong became famous and no longer lived in New Orleans, he described some of the youthful activities of his early days here and then said “In those days in New Orleans, there was always something nice and always with music”. I’ll stay here in New Orleans because I believe that the ugly dream will stop and I’m waiting for the days when again there will be “something nice and always with music.”
It’s been over two years now since Katrina. I have come back to live in New Orleans because I can’t live elsewhere. My grandma died before she could be evacuated. My family now lives in Houston. They say they will never come back. My best friend finished high school in Orlando and has a better job now. She isn’t sure she wants to come back. She is afraid the levees will not hold and that there will be another hurricane. I miss her a lot. I’m living with my aunt whose house has been cleaned up by a group of kids who came down to help us. Lots of people have come to help rebuild and clean up houses and other building. I think some of them are puzzled by my determination to stay in New Orleans. They do bring us hope though. At least I have a full time job now. That helps some. I still have the dream though! Once I went back to where I used to live. I miss it so much. But there is nothing there now but the lingering smell that permeates the whole area. The houses are all gone with only splinters of them scattered here and there. I won’t go back there again. I will remember, though, those wonderful carefree evenings when we absorbed the music and the fun and the love that once was our neighborhood.
After Louis Armstrong became famous and no longer lived in New Orleans, he described some of the youthful activities of his early days here and then said “In those days in New Orleans, there was always something nice and always with music”. I’ll stay here in New Orleans because I believe that the ugly dream will stop and I’m waiting for the days when again there will be “something nice and always with music.”
A SIGN OF HOPE: By Alex Taylor and Hilary Leslie from the WOOT video Series
A lot of times when we think of rainbows we think of a unicorn prancing about in a flower field, that cheesy image. But even when we see a rainbow in the sky, we don’t really give it that much thought or meaning. We just stare at the colors and keep on walking.
However, when taking a van tour of New Orleans after Katrina, we saw a rainbow in a whole new way. On this one street, on the left, all of the houses were still devastated from all the destruction after the hurricane. But on the right side, there was a much different picture. Habitat for Humanity is building houses in rainbow colors for those affected by the storm. These bright homes were a sign of hope, for things to get better in New Orleans even after the disaster they had faced.
This reminded me a lot of the story of Noah’s ark. After the flood and the forty days and forty nights of water, flooding and hardship, the storm was finally over. The clouds and rain subsided and a beautiful rainbow appeared in the sky. This was God’s way to show the people and Noah that life was going to be alright. They could go on with a strong hope for the future.
In Ecclesiastes 9:4 it says: “For his that is joined with the living, there is hope.” With God on our side, even if seems hard to find God’s presence, there is always hope. We need to be a rainbow for others shining in a way that reflects God’s light and portrays hope for others. Once we become that rainbow, we can brighten up other’s lives, even after the darkest of storms.
However, when taking a van tour of New Orleans after Katrina, we saw a rainbow in a whole new way. On this one street, on the left, all of the houses were still devastated from all the destruction after the hurricane. But on the right side, there was a much different picture. Habitat for Humanity is building houses in rainbow colors for those affected by the storm. These bright homes were a sign of hope, for things to get better in New Orleans even after the disaster they had faced.
This reminded me a lot of the story of Noah’s ark. After the flood and the forty days and forty nights of water, flooding and hardship, the storm was finally over. The clouds and rain subsided and a beautiful rainbow appeared in the sky. This was God’s way to show the people and Noah that life was going to be alright. They could go on with a strong hope for the future.
In Ecclesiastes 9:4 it says: “For his that is joined with the living, there is hope.” With God on our side, even if seems hard to find God’s presence, there is always hope. We need to be a rainbow for others shining in a way that reflects God’s light and portrays hope for others. Once we become that rainbow, we can brighten up other’s lives, even after the darkest of storms.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
DID YOU KNOW?: By Rick Hoppe
Did you know?
Single family homes sales in New Orleans metro area fell between October and November 2007 to 73 % of sales volume in the same months in 2006.
The pace of home repairs in New Orleans is slowing with permits slipping to 526 in December 2007 down from 807 in August 2007.
More than 50,000 Road Home applicants have received home repair grants since August 2007, but the average benefit continues to decline.
The number of Louisiana families living in trailers fell by 19 percent from September and December 2007.
That private school enrollment is 80 % of the pre-Katrina number.
The population of the New Orleans metropolitan area is 78 % of the pre-Katrina level.
DID YOU KNOW?
Caitlin is searching for and finding peace and serenity?
Jeff believes, “That time passes through and people choose not to participate.”
Leah understands “Who do you think you are?”
Vaughn knows “What my mind wants me to be.”
Lauren has a passion and a purpose to make a difference.
Solvejg could describe the musician story of two months in the Superdome and finding home in musician row.
Dave could move a young child to fell like a blood relationship.
Carolyn could compare and contrast the Ninth Ward and Bourbon Street live in New Orleans
Alex seeks and finds that good is stronger than bad.
Addie and most the kids actually do get it.
Hilary finds unknown surprises and enjoys the unexpected
Jimmy has more of life figured out than he knows.
Zach could express the Help, Help, Help that the city and people of New Orleans needs.
John is encouraged by the next generation.
Did anyone really know Howard?
DO YOU KNOW?
You have built relationships that have touched young lives and hearts.
You have welcomed strangers and made them feel comfortable, so that they could substantially contribute to our week.
You are special group of young ladies and men very well equipped for the next stage of life.
You feed off and support one another and it allows each of you to grow and be all you can be.
You have represented your family, school, church, and community well and are a source of pride and encouragement for each.
You should all be proud of yourself, and of who you are.
This group of kids does know the important items from this list… Don’t ever forget it.
Single family homes sales in New Orleans metro area fell between October and November 2007 to 73 % of sales volume in the same months in 2006.
The pace of home repairs in New Orleans is slowing with permits slipping to 526 in December 2007 down from 807 in August 2007.
More than 50,000 Road Home applicants have received home repair grants since August 2007, but the average benefit continues to decline.
The number of Louisiana families living in trailers fell by 19 percent from September and December 2007.
That private school enrollment is 80 % of the pre-Katrina number.
The population of the New Orleans metropolitan area is 78 % of the pre-Katrina level.
DID YOU KNOW?
Caitlin is searching for and finding peace and serenity?
Jeff believes, “That time passes through and people choose not to participate.”
Leah understands “Who do you think you are?”
Vaughn knows “What my mind wants me to be.”
Lauren has a passion and a purpose to make a difference.
Solvejg could describe the musician story of two months in the Superdome and finding home in musician row.
Dave could move a young child to fell like a blood relationship.
Carolyn could compare and contrast the Ninth Ward and Bourbon Street live in New Orleans
Alex seeks and finds that good is stronger than bad.
Addie and most the kids actually do get it.
Hilary finds unknown surprises and enjoys the unexpected
Jimmy has more of life figured out than he knows.
Zach could express the Help, Help, Help that the city and people of New Orleans needs.
John is encouraged by the next generation.
Did anyone really know Howard?
DO YOU KNOW?
You have built relationships that have touched young lives and hearts.
You have welcomed strangers and made them feel comfortable, so that they could substantially contribute to our week.
You are special group of young ladies and men very well equipped for the next stage of life.
You feed off and support one another and it allows each of you to grow and be all you can be.
You have represented your family, school, church, and community well and are a source of pride and encouragement for each.
You should all be proud of yourself, and of who you are.
This group of kids does know the important items from this list… Don’t ever forget it.
Friday, April 18, 2008
GREEN SHOOTS: By Cinda Hickman
In August of 1989, my husband Warren and I set out on vacation, driving west to visit relatives in Idaho.
We eagerly anticipated the open spaces, wide skies, and vast mountain ranges we would encounter, geography so different from our own locale in western Pennsylvania among the foothills of the older, greener, and gentler Appalachian mountains. Crossing the intervening flat expanses of the prairie lands in the Midwest, we knew, would accentuate further the contrasts of our country’s awesome and diverse landscape.
En route we planned to revisit Yellowstone National Park. We wanted to see for ourselves the effects the forest fires there the previous August had caused. We could only try to visualize the aftermath of the largest wildfires in the recorded history of the park. An expanding mosaic of hungry flames had consumed more than 1.2 million acres of trees and plants, slightly more than one-third of its territory.
No picture or news account could have adequately shown us that new reality. We slowly made our way through miles of a wilderness, once green, now black and charred and sooty. We peered at the blue, blue western sky through a strange huge vertical Venetian blind, each slat yet another surviving forlorn tree trunk deprived of its limbs, its needles or leaves, its capacity to hold a bird nest or to supply shade.
But then, we spotted, here and there and yet again over there, a brighter color. Emerging from some of the least likely remains were shoots of green. In time and with careful human help, there would be a regrown forest, a national park ready to embrace wholeheartedly once again all of its residents and visitors, welcoming them to its unique offerings.
Years later in August of 2005, the forces of nature, this time wind and water, overwhelmed a large city, New Orleans, and its surrounding communities and countryside when Hurricane Katrina struck. The collapse of the city’s drainage and navigational canal levees proved to be the worst engineering disaster in U.S. history. Horrific loss and damage to life and property resulted. Another unique setting in our country’s geography, as well as a special cultural heritage and ongoing way of life, had been dealt shattering blows. In contrast to what happened around the wildfires in Yellowstone, relief efforts from federal, state, and private sources have often proved inadequate and unmercifully delayed.
Two years later, those individuals who have witnessed firsthand the continuing plight of New Orleans and its neighbors tell of mold and decay and debris still in homes and other buildings. Returning relief volunteers describe cutting through overgrown vegetation, helping to sort through recovered personal belongings, listening to stories of lives forever changed. No picture or news account could adequately show this new reality in the south. There remains a dark aftermath as black as those charred remains Warren and I saw years earlier in the west.
In this Advent season of the Christian Church year, among all the familiar Bible verses and accounts, the passage from Isaiah used to describe the lineage of Jesus catches my attention: “A green shoot will sprout from Jesse’s stump; from his roots a budding branch.” Then I learn about the second mission trip to New Orleans that the youth of our congregation are undertaking in January. I read the verse that is the group’s theme, Psalm 74:23. The Message states it this way: “Remember your promises; the city is in darkness, the countryside violent. Don’t leave the victims to rot in the street; make them a choir that sings your praises.”
A combination of thoughts as curious as the family’s collection of Christmas tree ornaments glimmer together. Green shoots emerging in a fire-eaten forest. Growing numbers of volunteers to rebuild a chewed-up city and countryside. A shoot from the stump of Jesse. Victims who can be carefully tended into blooming once again, swelling with songs of praise to the source of all Life. It is we, as people of God, those who care and give from home and those who travel to work on the scene, who are the signs of hope arising green amid damaged and blackened terrain wherever it is found, in the landscape of natural geography or in the human heart.
We eagerly anticipated the open spaces, wide skies, and vast mountain ranges we would encounter, geography so different from our own locale in western Pennsylvania among the foothills of the older, greener, and gentler Appalachian mountains. Crossing the intervening flat expanses of the prairie lands in the Midwest, we knew, would accentuate further the contrasts of our country’s awesome and diverse landscape.
En route we planned to revisit Yellowstone National Park. We wanted to see for ourselves the effects the forest fires there the previous August had caused. We could only try to visualize the aftermath of the largest wildfires in the recorded history of the park. An expanding mosaic of hungry flames had consumed more than 1.2 million acres of trees and plants, slightly more than one-third of its territory.
No picture or news account could have adequately shown us that new reality. We slowly made our way through miles of a wilderness, once green, now black and charred and sooty. We peered at the blue, blue western sky through a strange huge vertical Venetian blind, each slat yet another surviving forlorn tree trunk deprived of its limbs, its needles or leaves, its capacity to hold a bird nest or to supply shade.
But then, we spotted, here and there and yet again over there, a brighter color. Emerging from some of the least likely remains were shoots of green. In time and with careful human help, there would be a regrown forest, a national park ready to embrace wholeheartedly once again all of its residents and visitors, welcoming them to its unique offerings.
Years later in August of 2005, the forces of nature, this time wind and water, overwhelmed a large city, New Orleans, and its surrounding communities and countryside when Hurricane Katrina struck. The collapse of the city’s drainage and navigational canal levees proved to be the worst engineering disaster in U.S. history. Horrific loss and damage to life and property resulted. Another unique setting in our country’s geography, as well as a special cultural heritage and ongoing way of life, had been dealt shattering blows. In contrast to what happened around the wildfires in Yellowstone, relief efforts from federal, state, and private sources have often proved inadequate and unmercifully delayed.
Two years later, those individuals who have witnessed firsthand the continuing plight of New Orleans and its neighbors tell of mold and decay and debris still in homes and other buildings. Returning relief volunteers describe cutting through overgrown vegetation, helping to sort through recovered personal belongings, listening to stories of lives forever changed. No picture or news account could adequately show this new reality in the south. There remains a dark aftermath as black as those charred remains Warren and I saw years earlier in the west.
In this Advent season of the Christian Church year, among all the familiar Bible verses and accounts, the passage from Isaiah used to describe the lineage of Jesus catches my attention: “A green shoot will sprout from Jesse’s stump; from his roots a budding branch.” Then I learn about the second mission trip to New Orleans that the youth of our congregation are undertaking in January. I read the verse that is the group’s theme, Psalm 74:23. The Message states it this way: “Remember your promises; the city is in darkness, the countryside violent. Don’t leave the victims to rot in the street; make them a choir that sings your praises.”
A combination of thoughts as curious as the family’s collection of Christmas tree ornaments glimmer together. Green shoots emerging in a fire-eaten forest. Growing numbers of volunteers to rebuild a chewed-up city and countryside. A shoot from the stump of Jesse. Victims who can be carefully tended into blooming once again, swelling with songs of praise to the source of all Life. It is we, as people of God, those who care and give from home and those who travel to work on the scene, who are the signs of hope arising green amid damaged and blackened terrain wherever it is found, in the landscape of natural geography or in the human heart.
NEW ORLEANS NIGHTMARE: By Verna Curfman
Dark clouds swirling around my head,
The rain shows no forgiveness.
The lightning will not stop.
The levees are failing to protect this
One town, from more devastation to come.
The winds are screaming
And my heart is pounding.
When did this party turn into a nightmare?
A nightmare where my hopes and my dreams were all blown
Apart in a single blow of wind.
A nightmare where rivers are
Rising and systems are failing to protect.
As we fight for last breaths with
The water at our necks.
We wake up; the storm is over.
Just to start the hallucinations all over again
For now we see the destruction,
The dead, and the hopelessness of the city.
When did the parties end and the nightmares begin?
The rain shows no forgiveness.
The lightning will not stop.
The levees are failing to protect this
One town, from more devastation to come.
The winds are screaming
And my heart is pounding.
When did this party turn into a nightmare?
A nightmare where my hopes and my dreams were all blown
Apart in a single blow of wind.
A nightmare where rivers are
Rising and systems are failing to protect.
As we fight for last breaths with
The water at our necks.
We wake up; the storm is over.
Just to start the hallucinations all over again
For now we see the destruction,
The dead, and the hopelessness of the city.
When did the parties end and the nightmares begin?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
PETER BADIE: A Reflection by Solvejg Wastvedt
“Mom, I got picked last again.” Darrel dragged his feet up the white porch steps and collapsed, crying, into Melissa’s arms.
“Oh sweetie,” she tried her best to comfort him, “Did I ever tell you what I think of when I get down?”
“No,” he sniffed.
“Well, first of all, how about I tell you your grandpa’s story.”
“His name was Peter Badie. He grew up in New Orleans and loved it all his life. Until he turned 18, he had a quiet life, spending his time with friends and family. Then, on December seventh, everything changed.
As soon as he heard that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, Peter enlisted right away, wanting to do anything he could to support his country. Through all the hardships of the war, his music always kept him going. Whenever they had time to relax, he would play for the other guys, and the songs would let them forget their troubles for awhile. I remember his stories of one night in particular, when they all stumbled into their rooms after and awful day, trying not to let their eyes rest of the empty beds around them. All of a sudden, Peter knew he had to play. He grabbed his guitar and softy started strumming. At first, no one really felt like singing much, but after awhile, one by one, their voices joined his, carrying their troubles with them for a few minutes. Over the next few years, they all stuck together and made it through, stronger for the experience.
Later, back in New Orleans at his family’s home in the lower ninth ward, Peter struggled with memories of the war. Day and night, images of battlefields, sounds of gunshots, and screams of pain filled his head. To forget, he turned to alcohol and gambling. Whenever the memories became unbearable, he would head into town, where he immersed himself in drinking and squandering his money, trying to forget, if only for a few hours. This went on, night after night, until a friend and long-time betting partner turned his life around. Clyde measured his time in heroine doses, and Peter used to say that after each time he woke up drunk in the street outside the bar, he would think to himself, “Well, at least I haven’t fallen as far as Clyde.” Deep down inside, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, and somehow the thought that Clyde had slipped even more offered strange comfort.
All this changed, though, the day Clyde confronted Peter outside their favorite hangout. As your grandpa tells it, he approached him with a determined expression. “Peter,” he said, “I’m coming clean.”
“Are you crazy,” Peter playfully pushed him towards the bar’s entrance. “You just need to get a few drinks in you, then you’ll be alright.”
“No Peter, I mean it. All of that stuff is behind me now. Like I said, I’m coming clean. Please don’t tempt me.”
Clyde’s last plea really hit home for Peter. Whatever kind of twisted relationship they had between them was dragging them both down, and now he could finally see that. His sin made Clyde’s okay and vice versa. In a way, the blame rested on each of them for the other’s addiction.
“You know, Clyde, you’re right,” Peter said decidedly. “I won’t tempt you. I’m with you.”
Slowly, a huge grin broke out over Clyde’s face, like the sun stepping out from behind clouds. They shook on it right there, amidst the drunken cries leaking out of the building’s windows, and turned their backs on that awful place.
However, even though his heart and mind desperately wanted freedom, the rest of him violently disagreed. Months of sickness and misery followed that hopeful resolution, as he struggled with regression and depression. Only through his newfound faith in Jesus Christ, the church where he had started attending mass, and Clyde’s efforts to keep him accountable did he drive out forever the demons of alcohol and gambling. As he used to tell it, ever since the crisp, fresh day in late October when he became a member of St. Jude’s he never touched a bottle or a deck of cards again.
After Peter’s turnaround, he gave his life over to Christ, attending church at least once a day and inspiring himself with morning and evening devotions. He had finally found the only filler for an empty life, and it set him at peace.
For the next ten months, he lived simply, removing all temptations from his life, one by one. He no longer walked by the bar every morning on his way to work, because he had quit his job. Instead, God dropped him right in the middle of St. Jude’s addiction recovery program, where he bent all of his energy on helping others put down the same evils that had haunted his life for so long. He still saw his old friends occasionally, but only to plead with them to turn their lives around. Clyde, Peter met with every afternoon to talk over their relapse struggles and purge any stray thoughts from each other’s minds. He stayed connected to God, connected to others, and connected to himself.
Then, in August of the next year, the fragile balance of Peter’s life tipped once again. It was going to be a big one, they said. Possibly the biggest New Orleans had ever seen. Although it had yet to be named, the storm loomed outside his horizons, threatening to shatter the peace within. Each day he felt the hurricane’s approach; it hung over his life like a huge, black cloud.
I remember him telling me what ran through his head on one Sunday, when he woke up early to prepare for 10:00 mass. Just as he finished his usual routine of grits and morning prayers, he answered a knock to find his entire family, children and grandchildren, outside his door.
“Come with us, Peter,” we urged him. “Come now, before it’s too late.”
For awhile he joked with us, resisting once again, he said, what the Lord was telling him. Finally, the truth sank in, and he grabbed his Bible, some extra clothes, and his rosary beads, fleeing the only home he had ever known.
We drove through the night, desperately trying to escape the approaching disaster. Early Monday morning we pulled in the driveway of our quiet Jacksonville, Florida home. As we stumbled drowsily up the sidewalk, the sun beamed overhead and the neat white gate hung open, as if expecting our arrival.
As soon as we got settled and turned on the news, a sharp contrast to this peaceful scene appeared. We heard the reporters use words like devastation, causalities, and unexpected, and saw pictures of Peter’s neighborhood, under water. Everyone was insisting that residents couldn’t come back yet, so he anxiously waited in Florida for seven long days. Finally, the next Monday morning, he made the frustratingly slow trip back into the city. Several times, government employees tried to turn him around, but Peter knew he had to see his house again. Peter always told me that when he reached his street, he stood still in shock. Where there had once been the gardens and shade trees he knew so well now only rubble could be seen. He pushed his way through the muddy standing water, pulled a huge branch away from his door, and stepped inside.
From the doorway he could see his study, where colorful posters of musicians and groups he had toured with used to line the walls. Now everything had taken on a drab, grey color, and the pictures lay in soggy messes on the floor, ruined.
Peter obviously couldn’t stay, so he waded the 25 blocks to the Superdome, where he knew he could find shelter. Fortunately, he had brought his guitar when he first left New Orleans, and it comforted him now during the endless hours of waiting. Several other musicians joined him, and they played to raise the hopes of everyone around them.
He stayed in the Superdome for two months, until a worker from Habitat For Humanity informed him that his name had reached the top of their housing list. Peter grabbed the few possessions he still owned, climbed in the worker’s battered van, and they bumped over the buckled and rutted streets toward his new home.
I remember him saying that when they turned the corner and the row of brightly painted houses came in to view, tears ran down his face. After eight horrible weeks, his beautiful New Orleans had started to come back. Hope filled his heart; he fell on his knees in front of the freshly painted white steps, bowed his head, and thanked God.”
Melissa paused, looked over at her son, and saw that her tears were mirrored on his face.
“Peter puts my life in perspective,” she said at last. “Whenever I feel overwhelmed by a misfortune, I try to see the situation through his eyes. Usually I find that my problem would seem so small to him, and I realize that if he could thank God in the face of all that tragedy, then so can I. I love you, Darrel, and I hope your grandfather inspires you, too.”
“Oh sweetie,” she tried her best to comfort him, “Did I ever tell you what I think of when I get down?”
“No,” he sniffed.
“Well, first of all, how about I tell you your grandpa’s story.”
“His name was Peter Badie. He grew up in New Orleans and loved it all his life. Until he turned 18, he had a quiet life, spending his time with friends and family. Then, on December seventh, everything changed.
As soon as he heard that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, Peter enlisted right away, wanting to do anything he could to support his country. Through all the hardships of the war, his music always kept him going. Whenever they had time to relax, he would play for the other guys, and the songs would let them forget their troubles for awhile. I remember his stories of one night in particular, when they all stumbled into their rooms after and awful day, trying not to let their eyes rest of the empty beds around them. All of a sudden, Peter knew he had to play. He grabbed his guitar and softy started strumming. At first, no one really felt like singing much, but after awhile, one by one, their voices joined his, carrying their troubles with them for a few minutes. Over the next few years, they all stuck together and made it through, stronger for the experience.
Later, back in New Orleans at his family’s home in the lower ninth ward, Peter struggled with memories of the war. Day and night, images of battlefields, sounds of gunshots, and screams of pain filled his head. To forget, he turned to alcohol and gambling. Whenever the memories became unbearable, he would head into town, where he immersed himself in drinking and squandering his money, trying to forget, if only for a few hours. This went on, night after night, until a friend and long-time betting partner turned his life around. Clyde measured his time in heroine doses, and Peter used to say that after each time he woke up drunk in the street outside the bar, he would think to himself, “Well, at least I haven’t fallen as far as Clyde.” Deep down inside, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, and somehow the thought that Clyde had slipped even more offered strange comfort.
All this changed, though, the day Clyde confronted Peter outside their favorite hangout. As your grandpa tells it, he approached him with a determined expression. “Peter,” he said, “I’m coming clean.”
“Are you crazy,” Peter playfully pushed him towards the bar’s entrance. “You just need to get a few drinks in you, then you’ll be alright.”
“No Peter, I mean it. All of that stuff is behind me now. Like I said, I’m coming clean. Please don’t tempt me.”
Clyde’s last plea really hit home for Peter. Whatever kind of twisted relationship they had between them was dragging them both down, and now he could finally see that. His sin made Clyde’s okay and vice versa. In a way, the blame rested on each of them for the other’s addiction.
“You know, Clyde, you’re right,” Peter said decidedly. “I won’t tempt you. I’m with you.”
Slowly, a huge grin broke out over Clyde’s face, like the sun stepping out from behind clouds. They shook on it right there, amidst the drunken cries leaking out of the building’s windows, and turned their backs on that awful place.
However, even though his heart and mind desperately wanted freedom, the rest of him violently disagreed. Months of sickness and misery followed that hopeful resolution, as he struggled with regression and depression. Only through his newfound faith in Jesus Christ, the church where he had started attending mass, and Clyde’s efforts to keep him accountable did he drive out forever the demons of alcohol and gambling. As he used to tell it, ever since the crisp, fresh day in late October when he became a member of St. Jude’s he never touched a bottle or a deck of cards again.
After Peter’s turnaround, he gave his life over to Christ, attending church at least once a day and inspiring himself with morning and evening devotions. He had finally found the only filler for an empty life, and it set him at peace.
For the next ten months, he lived simply, removing all temptations from his life, one by one. He no longer walked by the bar every morning on his way to work, because he had quit his job. Instead, God dropped him right in the middle of St. Jude’s addiction recovery program, where he bent all of his energy on helping others put down the same evils that had haunted his life for so long. He still saw his old friends occasionally, but only to plead with them to turn their lives around. Clyde, Peter met with every afternoon to talk over their relapse struggles and purge any stray thoughts from each other’s minds. He stayed connected to God, connected to others, and connected to himself.
Then, in August of the next year, the fragile balance of Peter’s life tipped once again. It was going to be a big one, they said. Possibly the biggest New Orleans had ever seen. Although it had yet to be named, the storm loomed outside his horizons, threatening to shatter the peace within. Each day he felt the hurricane’s approach; it hung over his life like a huge, black cloud.
I remember him telling me what ran through his head on one Sunday, when he woke up early to prepare for 10:00 mass. Just as he finished his usual routine of grits and morning prayers, he answered a knock to find his entire family, children and grandchildren, outside his door.
“Come with us, Peter,” we urged him. “Come now, before it’s too late.”
For awhile he joked with us, resisting once again, he said, what the Lord was telling him. Finally, the truth sank in, and he grabbed his Bible, some extra clothes, and his rosary beads, fleeing the only home he had ever known.
We drove through the night, desperately trying to escape the approaching disaster. Early Monday morning we pulled in the driveway of our quiet Jacksonville, Florida home. As we stumbled drowsily up the sidewalk, the sun beamed overhead and the neat white gate hung open, as if expecting our arrival.
As soon as we got settled and turned on the news, a sharp contrast to this peaceful scene appeared. We heard the reporters use words like devastation, causalities, and unexpected, and saw pictures of Peter’s neighborhood, under water. Everyone was insisting that residents couldn’t come back yet, so he anxiously waited in Florida for seven long days. Finally, the next Monday morning, he made the frustratingly slow trip back into the city. Several times, government employees tried to turn him around, but Peter knew he had to see his house again. Peter always told me that when he reached his street, he stood still in shock. Where there had once been the gardens and shade trees he knew so well now only rubble could be seen. He pushed his way through the muddy standing water, pulled a huge branch away from his door, and stepped inside.
From the doorway he could see his study, where colorful posters of musicians and groups he had toured with used to line the walls. Now everything had taken on a drab, grey color, and the pictures lay in soggy messes on the floor, ruined.
Peter obviously couldn’t stay, so he waded the 25 blocks to the Superdome, where he knew he could find shelter. Fortunately, he had brought his guitar when he first left New Orleans, and it comforted him now during the endless hours of waiting. Several other musicians joined him, and they played to raise the hopes of everyone around them.
He stayed in the Superdome for two months, until a worker from Habitat For Humanity informed him that his name had reached the top of their housing list. Peter grabbed the few possessions he still owned, climbed in the worker’s battered van, and they bumped over the buckled and rutted streets toward his new home.
I remember him saying that when they turned the corner and the row of brightly painted houses came in to view, tears ran down his face. After eight horrible weeks, his beautiful New Orleans had started to come back. Hope filled his heart; he fell on his knees in front of the freshly painted white steps, bowed his head, and thanked God.”
Melissa paused, looked over at her son, and saw that her tears were mirrored on his face.
“Peter puts my life in perspective,” she said at last. “Whenever I feel overwhelmed by a misfortune, I try to see the situation through his eyes. Usually I find that my problem would seem so small to him, and I realize that if he could thank God in the face of all that tragedy, then so can I. I love you, Darrel, and I hope your grandfather inspires you, too.”
WOOT - We Offer Our Testimony By Addie Domske
Can iMovie Make A Difference in the Effort to Help In NOLA?
Here was the pitch: go to New Orleans in January, revisit the places we had been before…and film and edit movies all week. Am I dreaming? A mission trip where I can have an excuse to be annoying in my efforts to document things? Serving the Lord by sitting in front of my MacBook all week? I’m in.
During the week, I got the best of both worlds. In the morning, Gary and I worked on filming and then I would either spend the afternoon editing that footage, or at Wilson Charter School with the rest of the group.
The whole experience led me to think about how we make a difference in the world.
Does it make a difference to spend an afternoon hanging out with kids we’ll never see again? Does it make a difference to travel that far just to sit and make movies? Can I, as an 18-year-old high school student, make a difference? Does it make a difference to rebuild New Orleans at all, when there is such a risk of our work being undone?
The consistent answer I found: yes.
It makes a difference in the life of a kid whose gone through a trauma to just come and be their friend, not questioning them on their “Katrina Experience,” but rather letting them run over to you at lunch, rip out your hair-tie, and start braiding your hair.
It makes a difference to the people here in New Wilmington to actually see the work we did in New Orleans. To have that documented “journal” from each youth makes a difference in our efforts to spread the story of New Orleans. And it’s a story that needs to be told.
Kids in high school made a difference because they had something to say. Every time a youth would come up to me with their finished script, I felt like skipping. They were so wise, I felt like I was listening to my 94-year-old grandma. They were so intuitive, and picked up on such thought provoking issues to talk about that I couldn’t wait to get a camera in their face. They took it seriously.
As one of the youth put it in their video, it does make a difference to rebuild New Orleans. Maybe the small job we accomplished during our visit didn’t make a difference on the grand scale of things, but it did make a difference to that person.
Can we make a difference in New Orleans? We did to them.
To see the videos made during the SHYG January mission trip to New Orleans, visit www.youtube.com/weofferourtestimony
Here was the pitch: go to New Orleans in January, revisit the places we had been before…and film and edit movies all week. Am I dreaming? A mission trip where I can have an excuse to be annoying in my efforts to document things? Serving the Lord by sitting in front of my MacBook all week? I’m in.
During the week, I got the best of both worlds. In the morning, Gary and I worked on filming and then I would either spend the afternoon editing that footage, or at Wilson Charter School with the rest of the group.
The whole experience led me to think about how we make a difference in the world.
Does it make a difference to spend an afternoon hanging out with kids we’ll never see again? Does it make a difference to travel that far just to sit and make movies? Can I, as an 18-year-old high school student, make a difference? Does it make a difference to rebuild New Orleans at all, when there is such a risk of our work being undone?
The consistent answer I found: yes.
It makes a difference in the life of a kid whose gone through a trauma to just come and be their friend, not questioning them on their “Katrina Experience,” but rather letting them run over to you at lunch, rip out your hair-tie, and start braiding your hair.
It makes a difference to the people here in New Wilmington to actually see the work we did in New Orleans. To have that documented “journal” from each youth makes a difference in our efforts to spread the story of New Orleans. And it’s a story that needs to be told.
Kids in high school made a difference because they had something to say. Every time a youth would come up to me with their finished script, I felt like skipping. They were so wise, I felt like I was listening to my 94-year-old grandma. They were so intuitive, and picked up on such thought provoking issues to talk about that I couldn’t wait to get a camera in their face. They took it seriously.
As one of the youth put it in their video, it does make a difference to rebuild New Orleans. Maybe the small job we accomplished during our visit didn’t make a difference on the grand scale of things, but it did make a difference to that person.
Can we make a difference in New Orleans? We did to them.
To see the videos made during the SHYG January mission trip to New Orleans, visit www.youtube.com/weofferourtestimony
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