Sept. 02, 2005 ~ Not From Around Here
It was a family joke, something we often repeated when we appeared lost or confused, or did something just plain dumb when we were driving.
"Sorreee," we'd say with a sheepish grin, "We're not from around here."
This week has been surreal. Early on I noticed that things were different, and now I realize that things will be different for a good long time. One morning on my way to work, the driver several cars ahead of me sat through a green light at least twice. She was not having mechanical trouble, she just seemed distracted. Now, in some ways we are very polite here. We don't do a lot of horn honking. So no one honked or acted impatient when the black truck remained immobile. Eventually, we just found a way around it.
"She's probably not from around here," I said aloud, to no one in particular. And as I detoured, I saw the Louisiana license plate.
We live in East Texas, not far from the Louisiana border. The scope of what has happened is just starting to sink in. There are lots of extra cars and trucks on the road, and many of the drivers seem lost.
Gas prices have shot up 60 cents a gallon these past few days. There is no room at the inn. Our two small motels are full. We are talking about contingencies and emergency plans and what will we do, where will we put these people, how will we feed them, how will we manage to school their children? Our nearby cities are taking in thousands of refugees. Our minister has volunteered our facilities if they are needed. We're collecting blankets and socks and the other things that the Red Cross initially requested of us; now we're told that they have no place to put these items, that what they really need is money. So we're collecting that, too. Yesterday at church our mail carrier, hot and drenched with sweat, handed me two five-dollar bills and said she was sorry it wasn't more, but she wanted it to go to disaster relief. She trusted that I'd find a good use for it.
Last week we were in Alabama with Son and Daughter-in-Law and Princess Granddaughter. Skies were blue with fluffy white clouds. Princess was gorgeous and perfect and precious and sweet. We could barely stand to put her down. It was our very first time to see the little angel. We were in heaven!
Occasionally we saw stories on the news about this hurricane, Katrina, heading our way, but, you know... we never dreamed it would be this bad. We hear about hurricanes and tornadoes all the time, and I guess we just get numb to it. We left Alabama on Saturday afternoon. Our flight to Texas took a detour as the pilot tried to avoid the worst of the storms. These were just garden-variety storms, barely a hint of the nightmare gathering in the gulf. We drove home from the airport through more rain, which we welcomed. We still didn't have a clue of what was to come. Then we started hearing the unbelievable, the impossible, that New Orleans was being evacuated, that floods were coming, that a state of emergency had been declared.
One of our church's major relief organizations is located in Louisiana, and recently a call came in from them while Pastor was on another important call.
"Could he possibly call you back?" I asked.
The caller's voice broke, as she said it was almost impossible to make or receive phone calls. She sounded exhausted, near tears. I quietly interrupted Pastor and explained the situation. He took the call.
It has been a difficult week. After working late every night, today I took the afternoon off. I went to the grocery store to buy a few things. I hesitated at the flower department. Most every week I buy a dozen white roses, but now it seemed a guilty pleasure. How could I think of buying flowers and COOKIES when there are thousands without food and water? I reasoned that it wasn't the flowers' fault, and bought them anyway. And the cookies.
I really am feeling guilty. Not so much about the flowers and such, but I'm struggling with the idea of opening our home to the refugees. Others in our church have volunteered space for those in need. And I do think it's the right thing to do. It's just not necessarily the smart thing. In my job, on a daily basis I see and speak with people asking for financial assistance. Some of them would break your heart. Their need is real. Others, well... let me just say that we get all kinds... the mentally ill, the criminals, the addicts. It is not safe or wise to take strangers into one's home. But I sure do want to.
They say this will change the face of Texas forever, that most of these new arrivals will probably stay here. Their "home" isn't home anymore; it doesn't exist. What do you do with a hundred thousand people (or more) who suddenly have no means of support, no homes, no jobs, no money, no nothing? Imagine trying to assimilate thousands of extra children into the school system, today. Not next week or next year but right now. How do you do that without having teachers for them? And classrooms, and chairs, and books? Of course we will DO IT somehow, we must. We should, and we will. I just don't know how we will do it.
I think of the people in World War Two Germany who sheltered, hid... strangers in their homes, who did so at great personal risk to themselves. What good people they were. I would like to be a good person, too. I want to do the right thing. But I'm afraid. I'm so private, so quiet. I like the peace we have here on the farm. How do you even choose who to invite to live with you? We've had strangers here for brief stays, young people connected with our church. That's all well and good. But they are saying this is long term. Months and months. So I'm struggling with my conscience.
How much is enough? What do we do, and who do we help? Because there are lots and lots of people on our streets, who are
not from around here...
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