It’s first light on Wednesday, October 9. A silhouette of oaks and pines blocks much of the dim white glow of the sky. In the east, a faint band of orange introduces the rising sun.
Branches sway and leaves twist and twirl. An ominous feeling hangs in the air.
In the early morning haze, it’s unnerving to know this day and the next will soon be remembered by many for the rest of their lives. It’s been nearly 20 years since Katrina, but her memory is forever written on every blues-hearted New Orleanian. The year before, Ivan altered the psyche of friends and neighbors for miles and miles on our ribbon of coastal paradise.
Lives lost. Havoc wreaked. Psychological trauma inflicted.
Hurricane Sally made landfall as a two and I will forever remember that night. “Never again,” I say out loud, recalling how I sat with my children in a warm, dark house surrounded by creaking trees bending and swaying just inches from the roofline.
It feels like yesterday since Michael came, but unbelievably it’s been six years.
Helene turned Asheville into Survivor Island and the people of Tampa have piles of debris from the flooding just two weeks ago. The central Florida Gulf Coast is plagued with nightmares from Ian as Milton closes in. Ian dared to merge with other storms, exit the state, then turn around and wallop South Carolina, like a psychopath. People tend to focus on where the eye of hurricanes comes ashore, but people for hundreds of miles in the path of these storms won’t soon forget the upheaval.
“Why on earth are those people staying?” people around the country wonder, and in a couple of days, the judgment will begin as water rescues and mercy missions deploy.
It’s a question whose answers are more complicated than clear.
The shortest and most direct answer: it’s home.
What does that even mean when life and limb are at stake?
Close your eyes and imagine holding hands with someone you love. And when your eyes open, you must release your grip and walk away from them – not knowing if they’ll be waiting on your return, or if either of you will ever be the same upon reuniting. It’s hard to imagine and even harder to do.
In some ways, driving away from home on the eve of a hurricane can feel similar. Sure…boards, windows, landscaping, and contents can all be replaced. But is home ever just a building? Is the street where we live just a surface where we drive our cars?
The sidewalks where we walk our dogs also hold the memories of kids’ first bike rides and ice cream trucks in summer. On our way to work, we pass football and soccer fields that hold on to the glory of better days. In our yards, we exchange small talk with the mail carrier and hold court with the neighbors. The dock at the end of the street hosts the neighborhood boy gang who meet after school to cast fishing lines and big dreams. And the little church on the corner stores the record book of town baptisms for the last fifty years.
Everywhere we look elicits memories of things experienced and people loved. From banner days to forgettable ones, the places we live hold the biggest parts of who we are.
Our homes, communities, and towns are the places where we first find love, where our babies are born, where families are forged, and where life’s first and last times are saved as snapshots in our minds.
Good, bad, and ugly – our lives are lived out in these coordinates.
The seagulls and pelicans, the grit of the sand beneath our toes, an orange sun melting over the water, the salty air we breathe…these are the sounds, views, and tastes of home.
So when you casually quip, “Why don’t those people just leave?” know that you’re not wrong, but bear with them while they do the best they can with the beast they face.
When people decide to stay amid a storm, I simultaneously understand it…and don’t. I want people out of harm’s way as much as you and I don’t want first responders risking life to save those who wouldn’t heed the warnings. But my heart also understands the tough decisions at hand.
Anchoring plywood over your window frames is an act of hope and courage. It’s deeper than protecting an investment. It’s a moment of facing vulnerability and a last measure of control to protect everything you’ve worked for.
For some, it feels less risky to play Russian roulette with the storm than to spend money you don’t have and won’t soon recover.
And many don’t have a choice but to stay. Essential workers, like first responders, will stay. People who run evacuation centers and emergency operations will be there. And there are always people like Lieutenant Dan, who are “one with the water” or whose generational bond to the coast underestimates the fury of the earth.
Whether you’ve stayed in your home or evacuated to hotels and shelters across the South, we are with you in spirit and praying for mercy.
I implore everyone else to prepare your hearts for charity and extend grace to situations you may not understand. Tomorrow, head to your local blood banks, seek out donation sites, join a volunteer brigade, and lend lots of encouraging words.
May we never grow weary of giving abundantly and attending to the needs of our neighbor as well as we would attend to our own.
