Stories from the Gulf Coast, pt. 1

Greetings everyone,

It is the end of our first full day at Camp Coast Care, (www.campcoastcare.org), a joint Lutheran-Episcopal 'volunteer village' near Gulfport, Mississippi. It is indeed the coast: we're about a mile from the Gulf of Mexico. Weathered wooden beams poked up above above the water and stretched far out from the shoreline as we drove by; these are the piers, planks ripped away by the storms, still destroyed--a sobering contrast to the deep blue of water and sky and the white sand beaches, nearly vacant. Serene, and also lonely.

It is in some ways like driving along Clear Lake, IA, and wondering where everything went.

I would have liked to see this place before the storm. All at once, it is a little like Wisconsin, Gaza, Honduras, Lebanon; there is destruction and greenery and sadness and everywhere sandy soil. I did not know grass could grow on it, but I mowed the lawn today and the sod is thick if uneven. There are thin 'scrub' trees in groves that go on for acres, not quite forest. There are live oak(s) everywhere also; for us Northerners, these are like enormous yet short oak trees with vinelike growth covering the trunk. When healthy, you can barely see the sky through their canopy of leaves. You would not know this unless someone told you, that they were now only half of what they'd been.

There are, like Gaza and like post-hurricane (Mitch) Honduras, foundations without homes. The construction styles are much the same, and in contrast to New Orleans--rather here, they are more on pillars, and with sculpted concrete and stucco; ornate Cinderella-like front staircases rise up out of the ground, but go nowhere anymore.

I spent the day on grounds crew here at the camp--the folks who have never been here before wanted to start on houses right away; I figured once they got sore muscles, I'd get my turn. The work in Mississippi is turning from gutting to rebuilding now; in some places it is far ahead of Louisiana and New Orleans especially. It was a rich experience nonetheless, to be in the country, and to do outdoor work paced with the weather. Our crew chief, Jerry, reminded us to pace ourselves in the heat. It was about 100 degrees today with about 100 percent humidity. Still, when a coastal breeze came through, it was not intolerable and sometimes even pleasant.
Jerry planned the work day for us depending on where the shade would be at what times. I have not needed to plan my work responding to the environment in such a close way as this for a long time. Storm clouds rolled in just as we were completing our last tasks.

We worked in the tool shed most of the morning; then cleaning and fixing and pulling up concrete forms from completed slabs, and two of our volunteers 'beached' the four-wheeler and trailer on a corner of the large lumber platform. ATV's apparently don't go in reverse. I don't know how we'll get that one figured out. At least we didn't back into the building as has happened in the past. By the end of the day, especially after mowing, I resembled an abominable sandman. Off to the showers with us all...

Jerry, seemingly quietly, keeps the camp in order and is himself an Indiana native. He owns a house up the road, two stories...the lower story is open-air now as he describes it: gutted out after filling completely with water. The top story is still habitable. He thought at first, after evacuating back to Indiana, that he would sell the property and quit the area. Then he got involved in the relief effort back here. His son is in the Navy, and isn't around to help rebuild right now. The house waits. Meanwhile, Jerry comes to the camp.

We are fed extraordinarily well in the camp. There is Southern cooking three meals a day. Vegetarians are still somehow accommodated. Most of us are noticing how much our appetites have expanded in even one day, and yet, many of us will go home a little lighter. It feels much like the Middle East in this respect also, where I felt like I was always eating, and still always dropping a clothes size each trip I made.

There are about sixty volunteers here this week, from at least three groups. One large group is from Park City, UT, and two people from the group have Mason City roots--one is a woman who grew up in my home church and whose parents still attend there. The other is the adult son of a pastor who spent much time in small-town North Iowa.

Of our seminary group, sponsored by a new national organization called the Beatitudes Society, four women are from Fuller, several are from GTU (Berkeley), three of us are from CTS, and a few individuals from various places. We are finding much in common across denominational lines, which includes evangelical as well as mainline churches. Curiously, all the students are young and white. There is one black professor. Some are LGBTQ and most are straight. Lots are going into joint theology/psychology degrees. Most have not been to the Gulf Coast before. It was hard to find enough applicants for the scholarships for the trip; that's partly why I'm also here. We've talked quite a bit so far about the makeup of our group and what it means and how it might be different next time.

--

I wanted to write all of this to you first, these beautiful if somber images now, before writing about the day we spent in New Orleans yesterday, visiting the churches and the organizations and the neighborhoods. I took dozens of photos, but in many ways I did not need to because so little has changed since I last came eighteen months ago, especially in the places where the people are most vulnerable. That is the topic of my next long letter. Still, even in these places, there were signs of life where there were none earlier. That is some hope.

They say it will take ten years of rebuilding fifty homes a week to recover from the storms. For as long as they are accepting volunteer groups, which will be a long time, I plan to make sure that groups are coming from the Chicago seminaries. Wherever you are, plan a group also. It doesn't cost as much as you think, it isn't as dangerous as you think, and you probably know more or can learn more than you think about how to rebuild a home. So come, won't you?

peace,

Le Anne