Don't Forget Us, Tell Our Story

THE TABLE PROJECT MAKES THE PITTSBURGH POST GAZETTE

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 21:19:00 +0000

http://www.pittsburghpostgazette.com/pg/08237/906688-85.stm

TABLE PROJECT UPDATE

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 23:25:00 +0000

http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/frontpage/index.ssf?/base/news-29/121627262644080.xml&coll=1

A SONG FOR CLIFF

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Sat, 31 May 2008 23:45:00 +0000

Fly like a dove and leave your fears behind (2x)
Soar 'round the world with open eyes and wings
To realize what you share
To realize what you hope
To realize what you fight,
To realize what you love

Open your wings and feel the rush of air (2x)
Reach out and follow your dreams so free
To live life anew
To live life for laughs
To live life for dreams
To live life for love

You can't keep looking at the past
Look toward the rising sun
Tomorrow brings a new day,
Take it and fly away.

~Caitlin Moss and Nancy Hartman

YOUR HIGH CLIFF: A Prayer for the Passing of Pastor Cliff Nunn

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Tue, 27 May 2008 17:03:00 +0000

This morning I awoke to the saddest of news by email. Leroy Harbauer, the construction site manager for First Presbyterian Church in New Orleans, emailed to tell of the untimely passing of Pastor Cliff Nunn this past weekend.

Cliff has served as pastor of First Presbyterian Church New Orleans for the past twelve years. I could think of no better pastor than he to serve through the hell of Katrina and yet find the footing to be a pastor, an advocate, a visionary and organizer.

I’ve known Cliff since I was three or four and my father was the Associate Pastor at University Presbyterian Church in Baton Rouge. During that time, Cliff experienced a call to ministry mid-life and from that point on used his fullest gifts as a conduit to places of need in South Louisiana.

This past summer, I became reacquainted with Cliff and his lovely wife Nieta during a mission trip to help rebuild local homes in the Broadmoor area. While there, our theme for the week was “What a Wonderful World”. We drew on the words from Psalm 31:21 of the The Message translation:

21Blessed GOD!
God's love is the wonder of the world.

As we unpacked the whole of the Psalm through the course of the week, I found myself thinking of Cliff from the opening words of the Psalm (excerpts from verses 1 through 5)

I run to you, GOD; I run for dear life.
Don't let me down!
Your granite cave is a hiding place,
Your high cliff aerie a place of safety.
You're my cave to hide in,
my cliff to climb.
Be my safe leader, be my true mountain guide.
free me from hidden traps; I want to hide in you.
I've put my life in your hands.

There is no worse way to exegete scripture than to cling to particular words. But in this situation, I smiled at the providence of reading ‘Cliff’ into this Psalm, “your high cliff is a place of safety.” Truly Cliff and Nieta and their ministry in the Broadmoor neighborhood and greater New Orleans has provided a place of safety and sanctuary for countless people. His visionary style can feel like a scary precipice for those faced with day to day details. But for those who need hope, encouragement, perseverance and peace in the midst of life’s worst storms, Cliff was a safe leader, a mountain guide. I can think of no other pastor who modeled what it meant to ‘put my life in your hands’ than Cliff did.

When budget came up short for rebuilding, Cliff prayed. When tools disappeared from the shed, Cliff prayed (and called a local reporter for front page coverage). When the church struggled with the constant change and transition post-Katrina, Cliff prayed. Always, these prayers were answered with funds, with faith, and with good fun humor. After the newspaper ran the tool need, the next day it was ‘raining tools’ as local citizens brought all they had to the tool shed to gain their maximum possible use.

When I first spoke to Cliff after Katrina, I asked him how his pastoral duties had changed. He said, “Now I am a community organizer, a construction site manager, a volunteer coordinator, and an advocate for the voiceless. I realize now that should have been my job description as a pastor all along.”

As a pastor myself, I will remember his redirection in pastoral leadership as a challenge and a charge.

The Psalm ends with wonderful words of encouragement:

23Love GOD, all you saints;
GOD takes care of all who stay close to him,
But he pays back in fullthose arrogant enough to go it alone.
24Be brave. Be strong. Don't give up.
Expect GOD to get here soon.

Cliff was never arrogant enough to go it alone; his call was to organize the community into something greater than their own woes or needs. In New Orleans, home of the Saints football team, Cliff Nunn stayed close to God and in so doing was a saint for the city. My prayer for those who grieve his loss as a pastor, friend, family member, place of safe sanctuary will be those words from verse 24: “Be brave. Be strong. Don’t give up. Expect God to get here soon.”

DON'T GIVE UP: Writing of Fourth and Fifth Grade Youth from a New Orleans Charter School

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Thu, 08 May 2008 14:35:00 +0000

The Cajun Potato Dance is a two-step held together by a potato. A couple joins hands and then seeks to hold up a potato between their foreheads while dancing. The phrase that accompanies this dance, "Lache pas la potate", literally means "Don't let the potato drop." But in Cajun slang, the words intone "Don't give up."

During our writing workshop we had fourth and fifth graders share moments they had to not give up. These were shared with fourth graders in the Wilmington Area Elementary School and pen pals developed between two classrooms where students continued to encourage each other, "Don't give up." Below are a few excerpts from their writing:

RIDING MY BIKE: By Troyale

It was really hard to learn to ride a bike. I tried to learn how to ride a bike a long time ago. It was a small pink and white bike with training wheels. It said ‘Glamour Doll’ and it had my name on it.
I almost got it. I was falling. I also got a new bike that’s bigger. I was riding but then I fell. I am almost there. My mom is a great supporter. Now I have both training wheels off. Oh no!
I got it. I am riding! I can’t believe it. No training wheels. I’m so scared but I am doing it. “Yes,” I said to myself. I am proud.

MULTIPLICATION: By Le'Jon

In second grade, I was learning my multiplication facts. I didn’t really catch on too fast. It was very hard for me to remember them. The easiest ones for me to remember were the ones and two families. The hardest ones to remember were the seven and eight families.

I improved with help from my teacher and parents. My teacher helped me by giving me flash cards to study. I asked my mommy and my daddy to drill me every day. Every day my teacher gave us a multiplication drill. I got better and better.

I am in fifth grade now and they don’t intimidate me anymore. I can do them in less than three minutes. My teacher uses drills all the time. I can do it easily. Multiplication will never scare me again.

THE LEAP TEST: By Tariona

I worked hard to get to fifth grade. I was studying hard to pass the LEAP test because if I did not pass my mom would be mad at me. I would not be able to go to the skating rink, the movies, the blue bayou, or Six Flags. I passed and I am happy.

My teacher gave me LEAP samples to practice with. It was hard at first, but now I get it. I get it because my mom told me to study day and night. I was almost up until 1:00 a.m., but then my mom got up and told me to go to sleep.

At first I failed it. Then I studied harder to pass the test, so I achieved my goal. It was hard to get to the fifth grade, but I kept trying and now I am there. I think I did a great job!

MOVIES AND MONEY: By Lauren Meyer

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Thu, 08 May 2008 14:34:00 +0000

If Katrina had been a movie, everyone would have paid to see. And let’s face it, today, movies aren’t cheap. First is the cost of actually making the movie: the set, the props, the special effects, and the list goes on. Then you have the cost of the cast and crew. From start to finish, millions of dollars are spent on just the production of a movie, making it ready for the big debut. Once the movie is out in theaters, the box office can bring in millions to billions of dollars.

Think about going on a date to the movies. You have the cost of tickets, popcorn, drinks, and maybe the extra treat for your sweetie. This one evening can deprive your wallet of $20 very easily. Finally, you have the people who wait for the movie to come out on video. Whether you purchase or rent the movie, you are still putting money into the already overflowing “movie piggy bank.” How many people are so carelessly willing to give $10 for two hours of entertainment? A lot.

But how many people are willing to give $10, or even $5, to support a good cause? Not as many. Can you even imagine what could be done if we, as an entire society, could be able and willing to spend our money on something that could make a difference? Don’t get me wrong, I love movies. Movies are great. But our priorities seem just a little “out of whack.” Many people would spend their money to see a movie about Katrina, but most are not willing to spend their money to help these victims who they observe.

After Hurricane Katrina, the city of New Orleans was devastated, emotionally and physically. A lot of people reached out to help, but a lot of people continued about their lives, having fun, and watching movies.

WAKE-UP CALL: By Nicole Crumbacher

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Thu, 08 May 2008 14:33:00 +0000

I am an active participant in my church’s youth group. Every summer the youth group is given a remarkable opportunity to go on a mission trip. I have gone on every mission trip possible throughout my high school career. I believe that just by participating in these rewarding adventures, everyone’s outlook on life involved in the mission will be changed for the better. It was on last summer’s mission trip to New Orleans that really changed my life forever.

My mission trip group would agree that waking up at six o’clock in the morning to prepare for the Sunday morning service after a whole day of traveling to New Orleans was just a little bit stressful. Let me tell you, sixty people waiting in line for four showers, and twenty-five girls in one bathroom wasn’t a very pretty sight. Even though the morning was filled with fighting for showers, getting ready, preparing music, and thinking of last minute things we needed for the service, it all turned out absolutely perfect. I didn’t know that by walking through those stain-glassed sanctuary doors my life would be changed forever!

The church in which we preached used to have approximately two hundred members, but since Katrina, only thirty-five members returned. During the service, as we were singing “Day’s of Elijah”, I looked out into the thirty-five member crowd to find them all with big, bright smiles. However, one person stood out to me. This tiny lady with a smile that lit up the room was looking at all of us as if we were the delight of her day. Later, I learned that she went through a great deal of hardship in the past two years because of Katrina. What stuck out to me even more than her inviting smile was her story. You would never know by looking at her, but this sweet eighty- year old lady along with thousands of other people went through more devastation in four days because of Katrina than most people do in a lifetime. These people literally lost all of their possessions and still have faith in God. That in itself is a miracle.

The lady’s story is as follows: As her house was filling up with water from the flood and all of her belongings were being destroyed, she climbed upstairs into her attic. Miraculously, she then broke through her roof from her attic! Little did she know, this would be just the beginning of her struggles. For two days, this eighty-year old lady sat on her roof awaiting rescue. It’s truly a miracle that she broke through her attic ceiling by herself, let alone staying on her roof for two whole days!

I truly see God shining through this lady. Her courage and strength were so strong that she could live to tell her story. I went down to New Orleans in order to help people but this lady along with other Katrina victims ended up helping me even more. They showed me that courage, determination, and faith in God, along with a bright smile can conquer any challenge in life.

IRIANCE: By Carolyn Moss

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Thu, 08 May 2008 14:31:00 +0000

Iriance’s eyes opened wide with awe and amazement, “You went to the 9th ward. Did you go to the east side?” She asked in wonder. I didn’t know if the lower 9th ward was considered the east side but I assured her that I went across the canal to the eastside but I had to cross the St. Charles bridge since the Claibourne/Robertson bridge was closed.

The 9th ward is a war zone in varying degrees of annihilation adjoining small touches of rebuilding. The emptiness of the lower 9th by the Industrial canal levee now that the debris is removed overwhelms. It is a barren land. Brad Pitt’s pink houses briefly adorned the landscape but provided an almost garish contrast to the bleak surroundings.

This wasteland is home to Iriance, a fourth grader at Andrew Wilson Charter School. It is what she knows and desperately cares about. In one breath she cannot talk about it without mention of killing and robbing and helicopters coming to retrieve people who have been shot. But, in the next breath it is home, that complex, emotional concept which somehow connects people and land and life.

Somehow I struggle as I compare her wasteland home to the excesses of Bourbon Street in the wonderfully European, slightly shabby chic French Quarter. On the same day, hours apart, only several miles away, but a lifetime separated. Beautiful and yet like a showy peacock strutting next to a peahen. Both important and vital to the survival of the species. But in this case the peahen has been horribly roughed up. Never was she showy, but always was she vital, producing the life, supportive background of the city – not rich, not wealthy but present, ever informing, ever shaping and reshaping the city whether it wanted it or not.

BEADS TO REMEMBER: By Jessica Shelenberger

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:33:00 +0000

My great aunt Dot-Dot was predictable. Upon every visit to her home state of Ohio, she’d cook up spicy red beans and rice and complain about the effects of her city’s humidity on her thin and wiry hair. And every year, just after the beginning of Lent, she’d wrap a Hush Puppies shoebox with thick brown shipping paper and send it to my sister and me.

“Lizzy! Jess! You’ve got a package!” Mom yelled. It was late February. I was nine and Lizzy was five. I grabbed the box before Lizzy, my fingers sticking to the ribbons of tape that had mummified the shipping paper.

I read the return address, scrawled in angular letters on the left corner of the box: “Metairie, Louisiana 70003.” My fingers traced over the letters of the unfamiliar city’s name. I tried to form them into a pronounceable word. Though it was an American town—our Aunt Dot-Dot’s town—it felt exotic and foreign.

I grabbed the scissors from the junk drawer and cut jagged lines through the glistening tape and rough paper. The box swished and rattled, sounding like an unopened box of macaroni and cheese.

We ripped the final shreds of packaging away from the box together. With our last tug, a waterfall of plastic Mardi Gras beads drenched our laps, rivulets of emerald and gold and amethyst pouring across our legs and socks and onto the linoleum floor. They scattered around us, plinking like marbles on glass.

Lizzy and I shrieked with delight. We layered the jewels around our necks and twisted them around and around our pale wrists. Lizzy roped two strands around her waist and wiggled, the plastic clanking like a can of coins. We bartered with one another for the booty adorned with fleur-de-lis charms. We paraded through the house, waving and flashing princess smiles.

Aunt Dot-Dot’s gift had only cost her a trip to the parades and some postage. But those beads made us rich. In the months to come, Lizzy and I would drag the beads outside to adorn our bikes and cats, we’d plop them into the bathtub to swish them in the bubbles, and we’d carefully coordinate them with our Barbies’ outfits. We were dazzled by this gift from the foreign city called New Orleans.

For years, my understanding of this Gulf Coast city was shaped by those boxes of beads. Any time I heard “New Orleans,” images of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras entered my mind. Amid the backdrop of wrought iron balconies and arched doorframes on historic brick buildings, I would picture revelers in costumes on parade floats, college coeds bearing it all, and drunken bystanders raising enthusiastic fists. Every imagined character was smothered in sparkling plastic necklaces. 'When the Saints Go Marching In' was the soundtrack to my images of the Big Easy, those splatting trombones and trilling clarinets forcing me to keep time with my foot. Oh Lord, I want to be in that number, I’d think, enticed by the celebration found in my daydreams.

For years, New Orleans essentially remained a foreign place to me, though I may have picked up a few more facts about the city after receiving my first box of Mardi Gras beads. Yet I wasn’t alone. Didn’t we all know so little about New Orleans the morning of August 29, 2005?

As the violent winds and dark waters of Hurricane Katrina bore down on New Orleans, causing major levy breaches and unimaginable flooding and devastation, we were glued to our television screens. We suddenly couldn’t get enough information about the Crescent City. Even after learning that Great Aunt Dot-Dot was safe, my thumb was sore and my eyes burned because of constant flipping between 24-hour news channels. While watching the horrific images, my stomach gurgled. I had a persistent case of heartburn. I couldn’t tell if my malaise was related to my pregnancy or if it was a physical manifestation of the loss I was witnessing on my twenty-eight-inch Zenith.

Our fascination with the City that Care Forgot continued after the flood waters receded, as those fetid waters uncovered more disastes. Engineering failures. Racism. Slow and insufficient disaster assistance responses. Poverty. Corrupt local governments. Crime. A greedy insurance industry. Poor educational systems. Environmental catastrophes. Our fascination with New Orleans was apparent. The flood waters mirrored the problems facing our nation. As we became acquainted with New Orleans through our TV screens, radio reports and printed reports, we got to know ourselves a bit more.

Three years later, the rebuilding in New Orleans continues. I am sure that many of the people who were once transfixed by the images of the city no longer pay any heed. Only occasionally will I hear a news story about New Orleans, mostly about celebrities’ efforts to help in rebuilding. It would be easy to forget this city and its residents, displaced, resettled and still mired in the problems left behind.

My husband, sixteen-month-old son, and I went shopping last weekend, hunting the best after-holiday sales. Hanging on a large display just inside the entrance to one department store were enough plastic beads to fill dozens of boxes from Aunt Dot-Dot. A group of teenage girls grab at them, letting the strands glide through their fingers, just as Lizzy and I had years ago. A few steps away, the store sells bright fuchsia bikinis with a fleur-de-lis strategically placed on each side of the top. Wheeling my red shopping cart past them, I imagine those bronzed girls prancing about in the bikinis with the beads tickling their shoulders and chests and bellies. Heads thrown back in delight, the girls laugh at their revelry.

My day dream is short-lived as the images of a defeated and drowning New Orleans gush into my imagination: swollen bodies swirling in the flood waters; filthy, thirsty babies wailing in anguish; a father desperately appealing to the viewing audience for information about his children. The images spill over me. A puddle of loss lies at my feet. I swallow hard.

My son tugs my arm from his seat in the shopping cart. He grunts and points toward the display of beads. After discovering a pile of plastic necklaces in my old toy box at my parents, he’s been enamored with the clatter the jewels make when hung around his neck. I want to gather up the necklaces and shower them upon my son, but I can’t bring myself to do it. He is not yet old enough to bear their weight.

I KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO MISS NEW ORLEANS: By Tim Cuff

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:32:00 +0000

Following the failure of New Orleans’s levee walls and the flooding of the city after Hurricane Katrina, many Americans, as they watched video of evacuations of the city, heard, many for the first time, the song, “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans.” It is a song first made famous by Louis Armstrong. For some reason, although I am not “from” there, I do miss New Orleans. As they like to say, I have people there. My mother was born in New Orleans in 1926. My grandfather and my uncles, for much of their working lives, were employed by the Sewerage and Water Board (the government office responsible for maintaining the levees and the pumping stations which kept New Orleans from flooding). My grandmother lived there until the post-Katrina flooding “exiled” her to Dallas, Texas. I first visited in 1966 and have been a visitor many times.

As I write this your “mission trip” has not yet started. Some of you have been to New Orleans before and have a connection with that place. I am particularly writing this for folks who have never been there so that as you travel you will know of someone who, although not “from” there, is “of” New Orleans. With some of my people there, the tragedy, which was the flooding after Katrina, takes on a different feel. My grandmother’s house, a place in which I had slept, a place to which I brought my college friends, and a place in which my children experienced the unique love of their great-grandmother, was flooded nearly to its roof. Last December (2006), my brothers and sisters returned to New Orleans to help bury my grandmother, who died in Dallas a few months earlier. We visited her old house. Out front sat a FEMA trailer. The house was “see-through.” All the interior walls had been ripped out. Inside the outer walls, only the studs remained. We looked in the windows and out the back of the house. Trees that had shaded my daughters, Laura and Margaret, while they played in the yard were gone. The street was empty. More than a year after the flooding, chain saws still whirred and their clatter was the most noticeable sound in the neighborhood. When we buried my grandmother, the service was at St. Dominic’s, just a few blocks from the flooded house. It was the church my grandparents had attended for decades. We sat in folding chairs. There were no pews. They were lost in the flooding and there was a ring of water stain 7 feet high around the entire church, including on the huge brass doors through which we entered.

During that trip, we also visited the pumping station where my grandfather had worked. My grandfather was a supervisor for the Sewerage and Water Board of New Orleans. He and my grandmother lived in a house owned by the Board and adjacent to a pumping station on the Orleans Street Canal (although that house was demolished several years before Katrina and the flood). It was startling to see the building that housed those giant pumps, pumps that took water out of the city, and sent it “safely” into Lake Pontchartrain. When the levees broke, the pumps were useless. The machines my grandfather tended so many years before (he died in the early 1970s) could not protect anything then. We walked along the levee and thought about the levees that couldn’t stand the pressure. We looked at the railroad track that ran along the back of the property on which my grandfather’s house sat. [Ever try to sleep in a house less than 50 feet from an operating train?] The railroad track was elevated several feet above the top of the levee…..The railroad was built to operate even if the levees failed. The houses of most residents of New Orleans were not.

As you head to New Orleans, please know that I will be with you. For whatever reason, and I must admit that I don’t really know why: maybe because my mother (who died when I was eleven) was born there; maybe because I celebrated my twelfth birthday there with fifty pounds of boiled shrimp and crayfish; maybe because my grandparents, aunts, and uncles still live there; maybe because I took my wife and children there to see where my mother grew up and to visit their great grandmother; regardless, I miss New Orleans. If you’ve not been there before, I hope you can understand the place. It is not just Bourbon Street, the fancy downtown hotels, and beautiful southern mansions. It is a port town. Grain from the Midwest flows out, manufactured goods from around the world flow in. It is also an industrial city. It is full of some rough men, some rough women. For many, life there has always been difficult, not just since Katrina. Racial tensions still exist. Poverty is not uncommon.

If time permits, visit my grandmother’s old house. It is nothing special. It was just an old woman’s home. But if you want some personal connection with New Orleans, visit the house. It is at 5844 Argonne Blvd in the Lakeview neighborhood (about 5 blocks east of Canal Blvd, just west of City Park and the Orleans Canal, just north of I-610). Visit the pumping station where my grandfather used to tend operations (same neighborhood, two more blocks east of Argonne, and just south of I-610, you’ll need to get onto Orleans Avenue ). Think about how the pumps kept the city safe until the levees broke. Look at my grandmother’s old house and the other houses around it. Look how high the water in the canal is above the land and the houses around it. Look at the train tracks just behind the pumping station. Look where the tracks are in relation to the water in the canal. Imagine what it would have been like on August 29, 2005 to see the waters rising to the roof when the water from the canals broke loose. Imagine and pray.

It might be hard to imagine. It might be hard to believe that anyone would want to live here, living “under the water.” But remember my grandmother. Flooded out of New Orleans at age 98, she was taken to a beautiful place in Dallas, Texas. On her death bed, nearly a year later, she asked to go back home, back home to New Orleans. I don’t understand it fully. But I don’t understand a lot. I don’t understand the town’s motto. You know it: laissez les bons temps rouler (let the good times roll). I think that when you live in a city that is below sea level, a city always one storm away from disaster, it affects your thinking. You may be rich, you may be poor; you may be white, you may be black, you may be Cajun; but always being just one big storm away from disaster reminds you of the fragility and the precious nature of life. It reminds you that life is short, it reminds you to celebrate your existence, it reminds you to dance with the ones God gave you, laissez les bons temps rouler. As you head to New Orleans, please know that I will be with you. As you work there, remember to dance with the ones God gave you, laissez les bons temps rouler. I miss New Orleans….and in three weeks so will you.

HELP: By Zach Moss

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:30:00 +0000

Help Help Help
We Still Need Help
When I walk down the street
Not seeing anything or treats
Without lights in the houses
The work still awaits
Come people come
Help build a home
People's roofs need fixed
Bring them back home
Alone at night
Without a neighbor around or in sight
Please help the people
Make people come back
All that they know
Let them come
Help me Help them
New Orleans needs help.

Western Pennsylvania Table Project

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 05 May 2008 02:35:00 +0000

I continue to be inspired by Jim Moose and his passion for the Western Pennsylvania Table Project. Just as amazing is hearing how the story keeps unfolding and people's gifts are connecting to make something amazing happen. Read the link below for the latest.

http://www.ncnewsmedia.com/archive/tim_galleries/SPECIAL_PROJECTS_08/MAY/Table_Project/story1.htm

A PRAYER FOR NEW ORLEANS: Phil Gulley

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 16:31:00 +0000

"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.

LAMENTATIONS FOR NEW ORLEANS: By Beverly Cushman (the first of seven)

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 16:29:00 +0000

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.

THE WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA TABLE PROJECT: By Jim Moose

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 21:04:00 +0000

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

INSANE HOPE: By Jim Mulholland

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 21:02:00 +0000

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

HOME: By Tawnee Hunter

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:38:00 +0000

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.”

ODE TO A SHRIMP PO BOY: By Howard Moss

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:36:00 +0000

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.

UNHINGED: By Addie Domske

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:17:00 +0000

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.

WE OFFER OUR TESTIMONY: By Gary Swanson

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:16:00 +0000

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.

ALWAYS WITH MUSIC: By Pat Milligan

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:14:00 +0000

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.”

A SIGN OF HOPE: By Alex Taylor and Hilary Leslie from the WOOT video Series

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 20:12:00 +0000

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.

DID YOU KNOW?: By Rick Hoppe

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 02:06:00 +0000

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.

GREEN SHOOTS: By Cinda Hickman

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 19:28:00 +0000

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.

NEW ORLEANS NIGHTMARE: By Verna Curfman

noreply@blogger.com (crumby theology) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 19:26:00 +0000

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?