Hurricane Helene–a week later

It’s been over a week since the Big Storm. But we’ll be talking about it for many years. For thousands, life will never be the same again. For some of us things turned out differently than expected.

It was to be the worst hurricane ever to hit Tallahassee, the strongest and the biggest. Our little town, Cairo, Georgia, is just north of Tallahassee so we, too, were right in the path of the storm. All day weather analysers warned us, prepared us, followed the storm as it wreaked havoc on Florida’s west coast. Our son and his wife in Birmingham begged us to come there to be safe but we opted to stay home. Family members in North Carolina and north Georgia as well as south Alabama expressed their concerns for us and said they were praying but we, though handicapped, stubbornly stuck to our plan. Charles got Jared to make sure the chain saw was working so, when we needed help cutting ourselves out from under fallen trees, there would be power. We made a safe place in our hallway with two chairs, pillows, blankets, and water.

Helene was a Category 3 by the time she made landfall near Alligator Point in Florida’s Big Bend area along what I call her armpit, just south of Tallahassee. By then reporters were saying there was a possibility the storm would turn and hit Valdosta, Georgia square on. That’s sixty miles east of us. From all predictions we were sure we would still receive major damage. We retreated to our safe place and started our wait, by turns praying and making jokes. The wind did roar but we heard no trees falling. Charles went to sleep in his chair. At 1:30 when all seemed safe, we went to bed.

Without internet, no television, and only spotty phone service, we didn’t know for days what damage Helene had caused. We rejoiced that we had been spared, started putting chairs back where they belonged, and prayed for those who’d been hit. Only Monday after the Thursday night storm did we begin to see television coverage: devastating images, houses floating down a river of mud and trees, folks standing in front of a pile of rubble that was once their home, and, worst of all, family members mourning loved ones lost in the flood.

I sat in front of the television and cried. The storm missed us but slammed its way up Georgia and into North Carolina, with arms of destruction reaching South Carolina and Tennessee. At the last report I heard, 220 adults and children have perished with the number climbing every day. Hundreds are still missing, some tucked back in remote little communities, cut off from communication, power, and water. One reporter said it could be weeks before they find everyone because some perished in a mudslide.

My niece Carol in Asheville, N.C., in reply to my text of concern for her, said that she and her husband Billy, who has Parkinsons, were safe from the storm, but huge trees were down all over the mountain and the French Broad River was flooding whole towns, homes, businesses, and all. She and Billy escaped after the storm to a hotel in Virginia.

We are inspired by the quick responses of Samaritan’s Purse, Georgia Disaster Relief, the Red Cross, and hundreds of individuals like our own Gary and Rhonda Keve, who have gone to work with their sleeves rolled up. Stories of heroism are coming out. One news reporter, in the midst of telling the news, suddenly became aware of a woman in her car sinking in the river. He left his mike behind and rushed to save her life.

I don’t know why the storm passed us by and slammed into other communities, many of which were unprepared. I don’t know why children drowned in floods or why grandmothers were crushed in their own homes. I only know to hold tightly to the hand of the One who completely understands our grief and promises to be with us through everything.