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The Rescue Mission

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I wish I could transport every person that asks about the experience of Harvey to the morning of Wednesday, August 30th. It was the first day that we woke up without rain. It was the first day that roads began to REALLY open. It was the day that those of us without boats began to see the new landscape of our community. It was the day that everything got real.

The morning of the 30th, the energy and anxiety that we had stuffed into our houses for the last 4 days was overflowing. For the first time since landfall, people felt safe to move around. Because of the ground saturation, even the slightest moisture was cause for accumulation but by Wednesday, the sun was shining. We unlocked the doors to 218 shortly before 9am and almost immediately, volunteers began to flood in the building. Everyone wanted to help. With school cancelled until at least the following Monday and many jobs not requiring workers to report, families were serving together.

There was not an empty corner of the room at 218. Where guitars and drums once dominated, adult shoes were now home. Instead of worship seating, we had sections for men’s, women’s and kid’s clothing. Our family room was now the baby station. Our elementary classroom was home to bedding of all sizes. We rounded out the kids’ space with a room for games and toys and one for cleaning supplies and paper goods. There was little room to walk, but there were people and love and care and generosity abounding.

While there were many roads open, travel to some parts of our area was limited. The creeks were still high and crossing them proved challenging in places. For the two previous days, we developed a team of big truck calvary that could handle the water. As the tide went down and water drained from houses, many of our first responding drivers switched gears and began mucking out houses. Fortunately, not all of them took that role, as we came to depend on the friendship and love (and stories from the roads) that our drivers always brought back to 218.

It was in these early days that a bond was formed between those of us that would not leave. Call it survivor’s guilt or boundry-less nonsense, our desire to help our community pushed us past our limits. The part of this journey that I grew to embrace the deepest was the fact that many of my side kicks in battle had never walked in the doors of Ecclesia- Clear Lake prior to August 28th. While there were many that called this place home, there were also so many that came to be family in this space. It was on Wednesday that one of our new friends carried in a meal from a local restaurant and offered it to our volunteers. We had known each other for 2 days, but by lunch on Wednesday, it felt like an old friend throwing pizza on the coffee table and settling in for a good night of fun.

As hard as these days had been, we carried this weight together. When we needed a contact at a restaurant or hotel, we called on Clint. When we needed information on a social media site, Donna was the woman. Looking for cleaning supplies? Well, that was all Ramie. Didn’t know how to communicate with a Spanish speaking neighbor? We called Karen. We all had our place. We knew each other’s skills. When we were asked to send in a video segment on our work, no one wanted me. That was Marla’s wheelhouse and, wow, could she cover us. Hundreds of volunteers passed in and out of  218 Clear Creek Ave that first week. Teenagers worked alongside retirees. Little ones clung to their high school role models as they learned to break down boxes. Food was shared, stories were told and hearts were held. We had big jobs to do.

My favorite story of that day came when I realized that one of the grocery stores was open. I was informed that the lines were long, but we needed some food supplies to share with neighbors. I had $200 cash that had been donated. Knowing that there was a job for everyone, I walked into the main room where people were working hard to sort and fold and organize. Loudly I screamed, “Who is the most patient person in this room?”

While a few key faces spawned huge grins, looking sheepish in the t-shirt section was a man I had never seen. He introduced himself to me and said he could do whatever I needed. I handed him $200 cash and said, “We have never met, but we are in this together. Can you go to the grocery store, wait in whatever line you encounter, and bring back bread and lunchmeat and fresh fruit for our hotel friends?” He cheerfully accepted the challenge and struck out. Hours later, he walked back in. Receipt in hand, and food in the cooler, he thanked me for letting him go. I did not see him again in the next two weeks. I honestly don’t even remember his name. But for that moment, we were on a mission together.

At ECL we say we are “journeying together in God’s ongoing rescue of the oppressed.” I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen those words be more true than in the days following Harvey. We knew what oppression looked and felt like because we had experienced it firsthand. We felt the weight of the heavy load. And in the midst of it, we saw hope and redemption when we stood side by side and partnered together in this rescue mission. This was God’s beautiful story to tell, and I’m so glad that we were partners in the journey.

And there was evening and there was morning – the fifth day.

 

 

The Gift of the Chase

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I left Waco for the summer with one goal. I knew I was going back to rush and hopefully pledge a sorority. High goals, I know. I also had seen enough in year one to know that with those greek letters would come the opportunity to swim in adventurous ponds of new activities. My goal for the summer was to get ready. First on my list of things to achieve was the ability to enjoy alcohol. That was the responsible thing to do, right? Being the perfectionist planner that I am, I set off to master the skill. I planned the day, I planned the setting. I called the accomplices. I even sent the designated procurement agent off with a complete list of supplies.

Again, with the perfectionist nonsense, I studied alcohol volume and content and felt that starting slow would be beneficial. I still have a bit of twitch when I see B&J Strawberry Daiquiri wine coolers, but perhaps not for the reason you might think. After consuming a few, I realized that all of the horror stories about being drunk and the worries that had held the demon of alcohol at bay, did not seem to be affecting me. I just didn’t get the big deal. I was not woozy. I was not out of control. I actually just felt like I had a belly bloated with sugar.

In my attempt to reconcile this apparent discrepancy in storyline, I sought the council of a more experienced drinker. As I explained that there appeared to be no ill effects, it was suggested that I try something with a bit more punch. The mason jar was prepared and the Wild Turkey was poured. Erroneously assuming that the drink was completed, I took the jar and drank it down in one fast swallow. Apparently, I was supposed to wait for Diet Coke. But with my limited experience, mixers were not in my knowledge base. The brown stuff was in the jar and I thought it was my turn to drink. What happened next was a fork in the road of my story. Where most 19 year old novice drinkers would have spit out the bourbon based on smell alone, the moment the burn hit my throat, it was as if the universe announced, “GAME ON!” In that backyard experience, I felt like the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I did not have to be in charge. In that moment, my very ordered, precise, black and white world came alive with a burn and a bad aftertaste.

I found myself with a lightness that I had never known. My words were freer. My cares were diminished. My fears of not being loved fled the scene like a The Ghost of Adolescence Past. I stood in that moment with a new world order that grew with each intake of ethanol. In a matter of minutes, I transformed from a thought obsessed, insecure girl to a careless, brave, bold grown-up. I was immediately drunk on being drunk. I knew that this feeling would solve many of the terrible ills that plagued my psyche. Much to the dismay of those who were around me, the morning also brought few ill effects. There was no vomiting. There was no light sensitivity. Rather, I woke with a keen awareness that I had a new best friend and his name was alcohol.

This was hardly a one time encounter. My desire to make up for lost time meant that I had work to do. With some additional experiences, I knew no moderation. Where I had seen adults have a drink at dinner or sip a glass of wine, that was never a desire for me. In contrast, my goal from day one was to pack as much power as I could behind each sip. I’m sure that I would have been much more enjoyable had I not required regular babysitting. What my friends discovered, even in those early days, was that given a dose of alcohol courage, my opinions were louder and my hostility more pronounced. I have never lacked for believing I was right, or that 90% of the general population was wrong. But with the non-filter of a drunk, I was not only willing to share my wisdom but to proclaim your stupidity.

When people talk about enjoying “a beer” that never crossed my mind. Like everything else about my personality and wiring, I carried a few life goals into my new world of alcohol:

  • go big or go home
  • if its worth doing, do it all the way
  • if a little is good, then more is even better

And so began a love affair that was in the driver’s seat of my life for much of the next 12 years. Why, you may be asking, is this a story in the celebration of Christmas and considered a gift? Like so many things in life, the chase for the high that I experienced for the fist time at 19 became a focal point. And while the outcome and end result would play out in some very dark ways, in the birth of my love for the drink, it was a glorious thing. I felt happier. I felt freer. I felt more alive than I had ever been. That all changed when I came to realization that feelings are not facts. But for now, bottoms up because we were having a party of epic proportions.