New Orleans—Going Home.

Our normal 20 minute devotion stretched into 90 minutes on our last night together in the bunkhouse. We had a lot to say and hear and share. We have become a family to each other. Not just fellow workers or team members. Tonight the Lord cemented the bonds of unity through His Meal, after sharing His heart through His Word, in a letter written by Paul to the Colossians while he was in prison.

We’re eager to get home now. Although maybe not everyone. And maybe not fully eager for the rest of us. It’s a mixed bag, isn’t it? Going back home. There can be painful histories that we must return to. Less than ideal relationships. Jobs that offer only a shadow of the clarity of purpose that we have been part of in New Orleans. And—we also have to say goodbye to a many new friends who become a new family to us.

On the other hand, there are relieved spouses, giddy children and excited family who are waiting to see us, and we them. It will feel comfortably familiar to arrive home. Like putting on an old pair of well-worn shoes that carry sweet memories of yesterday's journey. Kinda bittersweet.

There have been several memorable lines said this week that I’ll be taking home. Like…

- “Over 1,000,000 volunteers have come down to New Orleans to help out since The Storm.”

(Camp Director, Katie, on the first night of our Orientation, when asked about the timeframe of rebuilding and recovery.)

- “You’re not as buff as you think you are.”

(Our Camp Director, Katie, reminded the guys of this on the second day when several of us had walked through the dining hall that morning without a full set of clothes on as we marched in and out of the shower room, which was impossible to get to without walking through the dining hall. For most of us, this came as a rude shock, since most of us continue to carry around in our mind’s eye an image of our masculine physique much as we were when we were 24 years old.)

· “We’re not down here to help people so much as to allow God to minister to us while we engage in this work.”

(Babbet Chatman, during the devotion time on our first day down here, as we were sharing our expectations for the week ahead.)

· “You can have double our wages for your help.”



(Said in response to a strung-out couple who wandered by our crew, looking for a handout, after telling us that they too had come down to help out but were left behind by their contractor and now had to find their own way back home, if we could help them with some gas money. We invited them to help us, but they mentioned some vague commitment that they needed to get to. But they would have liked to help us, for sure...)

· “You may not finish some of the projects that you’re working on this week. But just remember—it’s not about you. It’s about what God’s doing. We’re each just one piece of the puzzle and the next group will pick up where we left off.”



(Our final devotion from Camp Director, Katie, in response to some frustrations expressed about not being able to finish some of the projects we started on.)

· “O Lord, O Lord, how majestic is your name.”

(Chanted in unison anytime we faced a change of plans, frustration, or mess up. First articulated in a devotion on Day 1, from the Psalms.)

· “You can have all the food you want for lunches, but please don’t waste it. We’re trying to be good stewards of our budget money and we don’t want to throw out food that’s not eaten.”


(Camp Director, Katie, in a gentle admonition to our group after we returned from our job sites with two extra sandwiches that had not been eaten!)

Life After "The Storm"

I was eager to talk with Mrs. Float. I wanted to hear her story, and give her the chance to tell it again. Telling your story of disaster often has a healing effect on your soul. She came to help us tear out her rotted flooring after lunch. That doesn’t always happen. In fact, it rarely happens. ”You just tell me what to do,” she said. Nancy immediately took it upon herself to minister to her by giving her a job—pulling nails from studs that would eventually hold up her new sheetrock. We clowned around and kidded each other, and made a point to include her. She started laughing. Pretty soon we were a family.

I invited her to sit down with us for our coffee break and asked her to tell us what it’s been like for her. “My aunt told me to pack up my three sets of clothes and leave. But I wanted to stay a little while longer. Just to see what was gonna happen. She called me back about 10:00 that night (August 28) and said, ‘Honey, you need to leave town now. This ain’t no joke this time. This is the real thing. It ain’t turnin’ this time.’ So I did and I’m so thankful. She saved my life. If I hadn’t a left when I did, I would have died.”

First she went to Baton Rouge, but there was no vacancies anywhere. The city was busting at the seams. So she went up the highway further and stayed at an Extended Stay hotel for a while. She and all her relatives ended up scattered all over a three state area—Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas. The only way to communicate was by cell phone. But all the cell towers were down in New Orleans so no one could get through. It was total chaos, panic, fear, frantic emotions and emotional shock. I think it’s difficult to fully appreciate it.

I remember what it was like when our house was completely destroyed by a tornado when I was in 8th grade. My mom and us kids crawled out from the basement where we had been hiding. There was nothing but open sky above us. The storm had cut a swath through our town about a ¼ mile wide. But just a half a block down from us most of the houses were still standing and fully functioning. So we had a place to go for shelter and food while we picked up and gathered whatever belongings we found intact over the next several days.

Mrs. Float perked up a bit when I told her my tornado story. Someone understood. Someone else had lived through a life-changing disaster and now was helping her. We connected. Her eyes said “thank you.” Then we laughed some more and she continued.

When she returned home she could not get her front or back door open so she had to climb up to the attic and crawl in through there. As the water receded, by way of the largest openings in the house, it drew everything else with it that was not fastened down (which was most everything). Her stove, refrigerator, table and chairs, food, dressers, clothing, knick-knacks and furniture were all piled up against the doors and windows. And, of course, there was a foot of mud that covered every inch of her floor from living room to porch. Not to mention the stench.

That was about two and a half years ago now. Her house is still standing. Mud cleaned out. All her belongings in landfills several miles away. Her plaster walls and ceilings ripped down to the bare studs, ready for rebuilding. And it’s coming. But painfully slow. Nothing works well in this city. You have to travel sometimes for miles to find a store that has reopened. It might take you an hour to go get a sack of nails—if the store can keep them in stock. You don’t know which contractor to trust. Horror stories of contractors running off with people’s money abound. The city is still missing at least one third of its police force. Drug dealers have 1,000’s of empty houses to base their operations out of. Insurance companies make it difficult to collect. The government is coming through. But it’s spotty, and it takes forever.

So when people like Mrs. Float see our Lutheran Disaster Relief vans pull up with a bunch of white folks from the north jump out, they (literally) thank Jesus. Which is why we came down here in the first place. Not as saviors. Not as “The Man.” But as servants of Jesus. What will make a difference is not what WE do for people like Mrs. Float, but what Jesus is doing. Jesus is ministering to Mrs. Float through our presence and work. And Jesus is ministering to all 27 of us through this mission trip. We’ve heeded a call to follow him. Because He has things to teach us. This is His opportunity to shape our hearts. Mold our minds. Renew our spirits. And reformulate our attitudes, to more perfectly bring them into alignment with the Father.

Question: Now, who’s blessed, really? “Thank you Jesus.”

Mrs. Float's Home (Day 4)

All I could think about was “This is Mrs. Float’s HOME.” It’s not a temporary house that she’ll live in until she can get a permanent one. It’s not a cabin, where you often live with less than ideal conditions since you’re “just there for a few weeks in the summer.” No, this IS her home. It’s all she’s got. It’s a duplex “shotgun” house. Her plan is for her father to live in the left-side duplex while she lives on the right side. For the time being Mrs. Float lives in an 8 x 30 foot FEMA trailer right outside the back door, squeezed between the sidewalk and her house, like many of her neighbors who are in one stage or another of rebuilding.

The picture to the left is similar to what Mrs. Float’s house looks like inside. Our job on this last day in New Orleans was to remove the rotted floorboards in two bathrooms and part of the kitchen and install new floor joists and sub-floor so that the plumber could complete what he started. He had installed all new plumbing beneath the house (most houses in N.O. stand on blocks about 2-3 feet off the ground) but couldn’t continue above the floor because there were no solid wood walls or floors to fasten the plumbing pipes to.

Mrs. Float went down to the government center and found out her house was built before 1907. “When they got back that far, I told ‘em to stop… I don’t need to go back any farther than that,” she told us.

The floor we removed was really four floors—ceramic tile, ¼” underlayment, linoleum tiles, and the original 1x3 wood slats over floor joists. I went out about two feet from each side of the rotted flooring and cut out a big chunk of floor. It was still bad. So I went out another two feet and finally hit solid wood. We could nail into that and begin to rebuild the floor from there. When we left later that day there were huge areas where there was no floor. Just rough-sawn timber joists cut and put into place sometime before 1907 by men long since dead. We had to knock down parts of interior walls too since the bottoms had rotted away from the floor, and in some cases, the floor under the studs had disintegrated.

I have to admit that several times I caught myself wondering if this house was really worth saving. But yet it was all Mrs. Float had. There really wasn’t a choice. So I decided that I would do my best workmanship. Because that’s how I would approach it if it was my house. How could I do any less for Mrs. Float? She is, after all, my sister… if you go back even a lot further than 1907. So I tore up flooring, denailed studs, pried down walls, measured and sawed floor boards with one mantra: “This is Mrs. Float’s HOME.”

Bourbon Street--New Orleans

Everyone’s your friend on Bourbon Street. And it looks just like the scene in the James Bond movie, “Live and Let Die.” Only better. Full of life. Three-dimensional. Unbridled. Free flowing.


We stuffed ourselves into a small corner of The Gumbo Shop restaurant, where we were nearly elbow to elbow with the table and people next to us. How could you pretend not to see or talk with them? So we did. The couple sitting next to us seemed… well, like they didn’t quite go together. There was at least 15 years difference in their ages. And it looked like they weren’t quite used to being with each other. Young guy. Older gal. I was curious. So I struck up a conversation.


They happened to be sitting right by a window to the sidewalk outside. And the menu was propped up in their window for passers-by to look in at. So every once in a while some strangers would stop and stare at them while they were eating. It was the weirdest and funniest thing. I made a joke about how interesting they must be that strangers would stop and watch them eat Shrimp Creole! We all laughed, and the ice was broken.


They were in town visiting, like us. From Oklahoma. Hadn’t been down to Bourbon Street before so they were eager to experience it. The 40ish year-old gal told us that the government wants to build a new Vet’s Hospital and New Orleans looks like a good place to do it. Besides, the $1 Billion price tag will no doubt pump a lot of money into the economy. Turns out they were down here on business to help put some preparation pieces together.


Oh… one more funny twist. One of the couples who stopped to “watch them eat Shrimp Creole” were studying the menu from the sidewalk just as we were talking and laughing about people staring at them. The couple outside was Chinese or Korean—we guessed. It was hard to really hear what each other was saying through the glass window so we had resorted to hand signals and sign language. Then they left. Next thing you know they were ushered to the table kiddie-corner from the business couple and us. When we noticed this… we struck up a conversation with them and laughed some more. Everyone’s your friend on Bourbon Street.


I found Cajan food a little strange. There’s Shrimp Gumbo, Shrimp Creole, Gumbo Creole, Cajan Crawfish and all kinds of things that where I’m from we don’t even consider eatable. Then someone kindly pointed out that Lutefisk isn’t necessarily a widely appreciated American delicacy either. Even for Minnesotans. Oh yeah.


Bourbon Street is a little like the Las Vegas strip, only much narrower with crowds of people, street vendors, and lively music. It’s the poor man’s Vegas, I suppose you could say. But much more engaging and interesting I think. We met guys who worked as professional statues… who practiced “interactive drama” with anyone who stared too long at them. Then charged you a couple of bucks for the privilege of being forced to participate. There were some pretty lewd joints too, especially targeting the young college-age male. Too bad they’re so effective.


We danced along as we walked since the street was flooded with so much music. If the lewd joints drew the men, it was Krazy Korner that drew our women. All eight of our women danced their way in. Then they came out and dragged in most of the men. Most everyone was dancing (picture 50 year old guys jiggling their bodies around in little circles—got the idea?). And smiling. And laughing. And enjoying the friendship of this team of God’s servants. God is good. And sometimes life is good. We ended our night at the Café Monde, near Jackson Square, where $5 gets you a cup of coffee and three blobs of donut dough doused in mounds of powdered white sugar. Disgusting, but delicious.


Our night of laughing and fellowship turned a little sober as we made the return trip back home along the I-10 Interstate. In the dark of night we could get a sense of the magnitude of this disaster for the first time as we flew past darkened neighborhoods. One after the other. A few lights on here and there, where a few had returned and were back in their homes. But many more homes lay silent and dark on the landscape. It was eerie. Something was terribly wrong. New Orleans is not going to be “fixed” in just a year or two. Some say not for a decade. I’m beginning to believe the ones who are talking more like 10-20 years, a whole generation.

Rebuilding Life in a Ghost Town (Day 3)

Ms. Lauchlin owns this house and is eager to get it rebuilt. She has the money to rebuild, but can’t get a construction loan until the house is water tight. Right now the back is wide open where a sliding glass door will eventually lead out to a new deck, the roof has several large openings to the sky, one eve is wide open, and several windows are missing. The bank doesn’t want the house to leak once new materials arrive for installation and the construction begins. Once we finish, the bank will give her a loan and she can start hiring contractors.

Speaking of which… Mrs. Lauchlin got ripped off by a couple of them already. She gave the guy several thousand dollars to purchase materials and start on construction. He spent most of his time on other projects. Using her materials. With her money. Then would drop over about 4:00 every afternoon to do one more little thing to show progress. One day he didn’t show up any more at all. Took the materials and all her money. Who ya gonna trust?

Most of the folks don’t know how to go about fixing their homes. Or what’s needed. Or how to tell if you need a new subfloor. Or whether it makes a difference to do the electrical work before new studs are put up or after. Or how to pay a contractor. Or how to check up on them.

I was up on the roof today building new gables for the eves. From here you can see Lake Ponchatrain, about six blocks away to the north. Most of the homes in this neighborhood remain empty. It’s like a ghost town. Some have moved back into their homes. Many stand empty, as on the day they were “mudded out” and gutted of furniture, appliances, clothing, personal belongings, bedding, carpeting, walls, ceilings, flooring—if it wasn’t part of the structure of the house, it was ripped out. Then the whole inside was sprayed with bleach to kill the mold and keep the house clean.

James—a friend of Ms. Lauchlin—drove up the first day to see what we were doing. He was blunt and not too impressed or interested in us. Each day he came back, he warmed up more. We started bringing an extra lunch with us just for him. I think he was impressed. Now he works alongside of us, gives us his generator to use, has coffee and lunch with us, and laughs and jokes around. The other day we were all laughing so hard that James had to walk away from us, half-bent over because his side hurt so bad. He tells us about life in the neighborhood… who’s come back so far, and who’s not coming back at all. He still chain smokes a mile a minute. We’re there to help fix Mrs. Lauchlin’s home, but in the process we’re doing our best to simply be Jesus here and to love the people. Like James.

A couple who looked like they had been to hell and back wandered past us as we were finishing our coffee break this afternoon. They “came down here with a contractor who left them down here to fend for themselves. Would any of us have a little money to help them get back to their home in Oklahoma?” The 35 year-old woman looked about 47 with a swollen, red blotchy face. She was as skinny as a rail. James thought is it was the result of lots of crack-smoking. The guy didn’t look much better. Like death warmed over. “No, we didn’t have any money," we said. "But they were welcomed to join us and share all of our wages.” They showed a little spark. But when they found out that we were all volunteers… and that we earned nothing, they became apologetic. They would love to help us, but….

Every day is different. Every day brings new adventures, and new people, and new stories. And the chance to be Jesus all over again.

Making A Difference for Mrs. Lachlin (DAY 2)

If you look carefully at this picture, you'll notice the back end of an airplane sitting in the backyard of this flood-house in New Orleans.

Yeah... it's real alright. We could hardly believe what we were seeing. But as I'm learning... that's more the norm than the exception down here.

Everyone's home is a disaster site. Over half of the city of New Orleans was flooded. Tiny homes that should have been condemned years ago. Elegant homes with swimming pools in their backyards. Brick homes. Wood homes. Stucco homes. And middle class homes.

It's been 2 and 1/2 years since The Storm. There are new trash piles on the sidewalks here and there, evidence of people who are just beginning the re-building process inside their home. They're the exception. Most haven't started yet. Some have moved far away. They're never coming back. The trama has been too much to handle. Some are still trying to get money to rebuild--from insurance companies, the government, and FEMA. Others are rebuilding, one weekend at a time.

I ran into "Mike" on Sunday as we were walking the street. His home is near the 17th street canal, where the pressure finally broke through and swept several homes off their foundations and piled them up like toy houses against one another. We saw the pictures on TV in the first days of The Storm. It was famous "levy break," next to the huge pumps that failed after the power grid shut down. As luck would have it, his house was to "the side" of the break, and only slowly filled up with water as the area flooded. He's been working on his home now for eight months. The end is getting close. He'd like to lay off a little and take a break. He's getting too old for this. But his wife keeps coming to check on him, and if he hasn't made enough progress, she gets after him. He'd rather keep her happy, so he works constantly. The master bathroom is next. Then he and his wife can move back in.

That would normally be a happy ocassion. And it is. But there's a down side. Most of their neighbors will not have returned yet. So, they'll be living in their newly rebuilt home, but have few if any neighbors.

That's what Bruce and Heidi have experienced too since they've moved back into their house in Chalmette. We met them--along with their 14 year-old son, James--over dinner at their church on Sunday, after attending the 10:30 service. Heidi guessed that maybe 1/3 of her neighbors have returned. The other 2/3 are either living elsewhere, waiting to see.... Or, have moved away for good. Or are in the process of getting loans and money to rebuild. Before The Storm Heidi said that all of her extended family lived within five minutes of each other. Now, the closest one lives an hour away. Another lives in Texas. It's just not the same. But they're back here because... well, this is home. "Home" is a tough thing to shake off. It's more heart than head. Which helps explain why on earth people would insist on moving back to a city that lies below sea level and is a sitting duck for something of similar magnitude.

I sat across from Althea too. She's in her late 70's. A tough, proud lady. We talked about the city, the Mayor, the government response, racism, the culture of The South. Althea was born in the 1920's and so segregation was just "the way it was." Something she grew up with. She didn't know any different. She said she respected black people, but they were not equal to whites. Now, things have changed. For the better, she says. She knows in her heart that slavery and racism isn't right, but it's so ingrained it's hard to change even when you want to. She believes that two more generations will have to die off before the old racist-ways die out. She already sees a much different attitude in her grandchildren. "They don't even see color," she said.

We worked on Mrs. Lachlin's home today--our first day of work. She had hired a contractor to do some rebuilding of her home four weeks before The Storm. When The Storm hit, her home was half-torn apart and the water came in from the flood as well as from the rain. Her house now sits totally gutted. Just an empty shell with studs and floors in place. She has the money to rebuild but she needs a construction loan. She can't get one though until the house is closed in so there's no chance for more water damage. Our job will be to close in all the outside open walls, repair the roof, haul away all the debris, and put plywood on the "windows" and doorways.

While we were there, a large white truck pulled up to the next door neighbor's house with a load of windows and a crew to install them. What otherwise was an empty neighborhood, suddenly looked like a construction zone with trucks, workers, lumber, the sounds of hammers pounding and saws screaming. Sort of what you would have expected 2-3 months after The Storm. Here it is 2 and 1/2 years out.

It's a different pace down here. Different culture. Different government. Different attitudes. But people are the same, deep down. They all want clean, safe neighborhoods. A home to live in. They're grateful to the volunteers who keep coming to work on homes in their neighborhood. Because one day they'll come to work on theirs. And in the meantime, they offer us the use of their bathrooms and water, since most homes that are being rebuilt have neither.

You feel good helping out even though it's just one tiny speck in a huge ocean of need. But it will make a difference for Mrs. Lachlin. And right now, that's more than what we could do for her at home in Minnesota. When we leave to go back to our homes, she'll be able to move forward in her life and get one step closer to moving back into her home. What more could you ask for?

New Orleans-first impressions (Day 1)

Pretty incredible picture, isn't it? It doesn't all look like this now, but there's still lot's of buildings, homes, one-story motels, and storefront businesses that stand empty. Normal looking walls have huge holes bashed into them, revealing moldy walls and broken timbers hidden inside. Dirty curtains flap in the wind. We passed a junkyard with piles--literally--of cars on top of each other. Rusting. Flooded out. Good for little.

It's different down here from Minnesota. Lot's of dilapidated little shacks on the water channels that follow the highways. Rusty boats. Guys fishing. Cyprus trees everywhere. And lot's of water. You have to travel on a bridge almost anywhere you go since so much is bog and wetlands.

Monday we go to it. All 27 of us. Rebuilding... one home at a time. It's a long process. They're right when they say it'll take close to a decade to rebuild the city. It seems like an impossible task. I wondered why they let the water stand for so long. Like over a month. Then I'm told that there was no electricity to pump the flood-water out. Oh. And--of course, first the levies had to be repaired before pumping could start. Oh yeah.

We didn't bring much with us, but I think it's enough: Positive attitudes. Can-do spirit. Hope. Heart. Jesus.

We drove straight through the night to get here. Left about 4 p.m. Trading drivers every 3-5 hours. Eating on the go. We made it in just 22 hours. The rest of today is just getting settled, trading stories of the drive down, resting and making plans for our first real meal tonight in 24 hours.

Tomorrow we head out to attend a worship service at Gethsemane Lutheran Church, a church the group visited last time they were here and which has been instrumental in the rebuilding process. Like most churches down here. They're planning to fix a church dinner for us. Lots of people want to express their thanks to the 1,000,000 volunteers who have come down to help since August, 2005. After dinner we'll spend the afternoon driving around the neighborhoods that have been impacted the most and touring the area where we'll be working in this coming week.

Monday we'll get to meet the people. The best part.

Ode to my dog

My dog died a few days ago. “Penny” had been a part of our family for almost 13 years. In an old home movie our two kids took turns holding their new seven-week-old Golden Retriever, caressing her soft coat--and being careful not to drop her on the kitchen floor. One of them looked straight into the camera and stated matter-of-factly, “This is OUR puppy!” Like it was the most precious gift they had ever yet received from life. Which it was. The analog movie frames dripped with child-like delight.

My wife has to catch herself from “spilling” popcorn on the floor each evening when she makes it for a TV snack. Each time she forgets, it’s still there on the floor in the morning. I keep “hearing” Penny’s dog tags jangling. My head jerks around before I remember.

Yeah… I know what some of you are thinking: “you’re writing about a dog? … while families in Kenya are running to save their lives and the orphanages in Kazakhstan are full of rusting cribs that are “home” to 3-year-olds? … you’re grieving for a canine quadruped?”

Yeah, it is strange. I agree. Life is full of contradictions, peculiarities, strange coincidences, inconsistencies, opposites… isn’t it? But life embraces both the sacred and the vulgar. In the very same moment. Without judgment. Life is what it is.

I thank God for “Penny, the dog.” She was a beautiful gift to us. She would often force us to pet her by nudging her nose—sometimes forcefully—under our arm or hand. “Pet me.” And you know… most of the time it helped put the day in perspective. Even though she was just a “dumb dog,” I treated her as a gift. We all did. And she was. I have no regrets.

The end went fast. A blessing, really. Three days before she died she was tromping through the woods with me as I snow-shoed. She was huffing and puffing, but when I would stop to check her, her tail wagged and she looked up at me with her big “Golden Retriever” smile. I interpreted that to mean, “party on, pack leader!” The tumors must have finally crossed a tipping point inside her because she woke up the next day, mopey and sick. We thought it was something she ate. The next day was worse so we took her to the vet. “Her body is starting to shut down” we were told. Shut down? As in dying?

We were expecting this… but not quite yet, and not so suddenly. Within hours she could no longer get up or move. We stayed by her side and stroked her soft head and floppy ears and talked with soft, compassionate voices, telling her what a wonderful gift she had been… that she was a beautiful dog.

She died the next day. On a special quilt. In the doc’s office. In quiet peace. Among the human beings who cared for her and enjoyed her companionship. A precious gift from God.

Our house is strangely emptier now. We both walk in and notice something is different. Not as much as when our kids left home. But similar.