In this Issue:

Convention 2006

Alaska's Bishop Mc Donald, keynotes 2006 Convention

Nominees for Diocesan Offices

Resolution Alert! Due in Diocesan Office by February 3

Other Stories

Ministry of Hospitality: St. Paul's Newport

Listening: King's message spans Americas, Panama's bishop declares

Haitian institute director killed in Port-au-Prince

Trinity Institute explores 'The anatomy of reconciliation' Jan. 30-Feb. 1

Commentaries

From the Bishop: Daddy, Why can't I go to Fun Town?

Reflection: Riding a bumpy camel

X-ercizing: Advent Lessons

Meeting God in Pascagoula, Mississippi

Diocesan Calendar

Past Issues

Meeting God in Pascagoula, Mississippi

By Amy Oden Kreiter

Before Robin and I left for the Pascagoula, Miss., several people asked, well why would you want to leave your daughter and family and spend Thanksgiving with those other people? I can’t speak for Robin, but let me clarify that this trip was a personal journey of healing for me. My initial purpose was to purge myself of a sense of powerlessness. I’m from Mississippi, and nearly every member of my family was affected by this storm, most severely, my father in Bay St. Louis. His house is still standing, but it’s been gutted; he was able to save only a few pieces of furniture.

Despite my connection, however, like most people in the country, I did not understand the enormity of the devastation. Most of what we have watched on the news has been coverage of New Orleans. We see images of the destitute and desperate, wading through murky waters, shooting helicopters, and looting convenience stores. Those images, while they are accurate, are only part of a vast picture. What’s more, they have fostered a sense of otherness. We may feel sympathy for them, but because they are mostly poor, we also hold ourselves aloft, separate and apart. What we don’t see on the news is that most of the hundreds of thousands of people who fell victim to this storm, most of those other people, are just like you and me. They are not accustomed to receiving handouts; rather they usually serve on boards and foundations. They’ve worked hard all of their lives, and now they’ve little left other than a slab, a FEMA trailer or a tent, and no foreseeable way to rebuild. Eighty-five percent of Gulf Coast residents (my father included), did not have flood insurance because they did not live in a flood zone. They believed hurricane insurance would cover their damages. The news has not given us accurate numbers of the dead. Hundreds are still in refrigerator trucks waiting for DNA testing to identify them before they can be returned to the families for burial. Unofficial estimates are that in Hancock County alone, 700 to 1000 perished. What the news cannot convey is that the Mississippi Gulf Coast, as I have known it all my life, has been annihilated.

But the good news is that even on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, the human spirit has not. The Word of God has not: “The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.” In fact, I learned on this trip that The Word is not a noun, but a verb: The Word, in fact, is using our lives in service of others. On Thanksgiving Day, as my daddy drove me from our mission site in Pascagoula to the wasteland that is now Bay St. Louis, I was humbled. I told him, “Daddy, we haven’t done anything this week. All we’ve done is hang some sheet rock and demolish an elderly lady’s ruined home. There’s no way we can fix all of this.” He pulled the truck over and pointed his finger at me, a sure sign that I had misspoken, and said, “No. What you and your group have done is so important. You’ve cared.” The good news is that across the country and throughout the world, so do many, many others.

When Robin and I returned last weekend, we were both overwhelmed. We called Dr. Beth and begged her not to make us share our experience. The mission was so powerful and transformative that during the 12 hours it took us to drive back, we two English teachers found it impossible to organize our feelings into anything coherent. Dr. Beth showed mercy, gave us a week to let the drywall dust settle, and offered us a reading from Isaiah and several questions to help us frame our thoughts.

In what way, she asked, did you live the words of Isaiah? “In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” Well, we certainly did that. We offered the word of God, without proselytizing, through comfort, support, compassion, the willingness to listen, and last but not least, through our labor.

Where did you meet God on this trip? I saw God in the battered but still majestic live oaks that line the coast. I saw God in Beningo’s, a bar serving Thanksgiving dinner to displaced residents. I saw God on a piece of plywood spray-painted with the words, “Don’t let Katrina steal your joy.” (This was next to the slab of a home that had been entirely washed away.) I saw God in the humor of a family friend who rode out the storm in his attic while the surge took his home off its foundation and halfway down the block. He joked, “I always wanted to go on a cruise, but not like that.” We saw God in the eyes of the grateful residents we served. We saw God in the eyes of each other.

What did you learn about the church? In the slide show downstairs, you will see a picture of Christ’s Episcopal Church in Bay St. Louis. Nothing is left of the building but a slab and the shell of the tower. But they still hold services in a tent every Sunday. The structure is gone; the church remains. And the role of the church, first and foremost, is to help us meet God in every other person. It must help all of us as a congregation realize that we must reach beyond our comfort zone and use our lives to rebuild the destroyed, lift the downtrodden, and bridge the gap between us and them, us and those other people. Because in the end, there is no us and them. There’s only us.

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