By guest writer, Missy Harris
Missy Harris is the Co-Pastor of The Circle of Mercy, a faith community in Asheville, NC. She is a graduate of the Candler School of Theology at Emory University. She and Steven Norris became friends when he served Ecclesia Baptist, prior to coming to FBC Griffin. This is first-person witness to the current state of affairs for our brothers and sisters to the north.
A man was arrested this week for threatening FEMA workers.
We are literally trying to put our homes back together and place the pieces of our lives that we can salvage into some semblance of order. And people are acting like fools, interrupting the very resources that can help us do that.
The truth is FEMA funds will not replace homes. Maybe parts of homes. Maybe enough to figure out how to start over here or somewhere else. Some of the losses in these mountains are beyond repair.
So many people are going to be starting over from scratch. FEMA will not replace beloved items cared for and saved. We now recognize how little things matter. Some losses will never be restored.
Damaged and destroyed homes have to be assessed by FEMA. If FEMA workers are intimidated and threatened, that work is delayed.
Winter is coming. The morning air is already so brisk that I need a jacket. Holes in roofs and walls have to be repaired as soon as possible. And for that to be done, FEMA assessments must take place.
We’ve been lucky. The skies have been blue for the past 17 days. Thank God. Eventually, it will rain again. Eventually it will snow. We have no idea when more rain arrives how it may cause more landslides and sinkholes beneath our roads.
Please don’t disparage and delay the people who are here to help us. Stop.
We are all neighbors. We want each other to have roofs over our heads, at least I think we do.
In the Gospels, Jesus tells a few stories that begin like this: The kingdom of God is like . . .
I’ll tell you what’s truer than anything I know right now. The kingdom of God is like what I am seeing every single day here in WNC.
People are helping each other. We are not asking what your religious beliefs are before we pass a box of food. We are not asking who you are voting for before we pick up shovels to get the muck and mud out of each other’s houses. We are not asking people who they love before we ask them for help. We are not requiring people to prove they have a need before we meet the need.
We are sharing resources. We are helping each other get back on our feet. We are filling up each other’s water buckets. We are sharing food. We are picking up meals from World Central Kitchen. We are taking showers in public. We are throwing our towels over our shoulders as if we are walking home from the beach. We are drinking cans of water, courtesy of Anheuser Busch, canned especially for disasters and tragedies like this. We are rebuilding our lives, and we are learning to give and receive from our neighbors and to receive the generosity coming to us from others outside these hills. Those of us who are more accustomed to being on the giving side are learning to accept help.
What I see happening in this community is nothing short of a miracle.
Even when it feels like there are beautiful little miracles everywhere, we are tired. The weight of this is settling into our bodies. I looked at myself in the mirror today, and I saw lines on my face, and I swear they have grown longer in these past 17 days. That’s not a bad thing. It just tells me this is real. This is hard. This sucks.
I’m lucky. My house and family are okay. I don’t believe that God favored me above those who perished or lost everything. This is just an utter tragedy, plain and simple, complex and complicated. God is showing up all around us. The Spirit is showing us that a new way of being in community together is possible. It’s not necessarily a bad thing that we’re all up in each other’s business. It’s holy and it’s sacred.
There are moments when I feel numb. I know I’m not alone in that. There are days I’d rather stay in bed or take a long nap. My sister says I have a touch of the narcolepsy. She’s not wrong.
But this is different. This is mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. We go to bed feeling that way. We wake up with the same tasks before us that we did the day before. Groundhog Day. Repeat. Having electricity helps. But many are still waiting for that. We are all waiting for water.
I’m working with a team of people to try to figure out medical respite possibilities. Connecting faith communities with people who need a place to go after being released from the hospital. Care facilities, hours away. Hospice rooms, rigid and stark. And the internet fails when I need it most to contribute to that work.
It feels nearly impossible to have a regular schedule. To have meetings. To be on time. To pay attention.
We are trying to figure out how we are going to get our kids back in school. Another half of a year lost. The gaps were already so wide. Now what?
There have been enough lies about these Appalachian mountains. Remember: it’s apa-latch-ians. Please try to get that right. It really stings when you don’t. It’s a small kindness you can offer to say the word the way we say it.
Is it possible to feel the saddest you’ve ever felt and the happiest you’ve ever felt – all in the same moment?
YES!
These are the facts.
The lies run deep. They always have. Please don’t add to that litany more than already exists.
22 days. Things are already hard enough. Let’s not make them harder.
Pay attention to what is happening.
Backward moving forward.
Chainsaws replacing steak knives.
Sawdust replacing gourmet meals.
Kindness infusing our days.
Learning. Loving. Sharing. Standing. Seeing. Lifting. Working. Feeding. Mending. Weeping. Wailing. Lamenting. Growing. Leaving. Staying.
Gerunds propelling us forward.
We’re busy healing and repairing. We don’t have time for lies.