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The Katrina Journals

A series of journal entries set against a backdrop of confusion and anxiety

Katrina Arrives...


Tuesday, August 30, 2005


Katrina hit in the early hours between the order and the chaos of an evacuation and a human standoff against Nature. Some stayed, determined to either defend life, limb and property against the mighty rage of the perfect storm.  Those who left, left behind what would become the remains of the evidence that they did once live, work and play on that piece of ground. Now, that piece of ground may only be a pile of memories, broken and torn.


Those of us who left are also torn – between the hope for what may still remain, and guilt for eating cooked food, using flushing toilets, drinking clean water, and resting on soft beds. The lucky ones had somewhere to go. The others are waiting on rooftops, in hot, dark rooms. Waiting for rescue. Waiting for a break in the darkness and a breeze. A breeze would be welcome – a very small thing, but a God-send for someone between an attic floor and a roof top. 


What must they be thinking?  Up there in the attic. Are they gathering those things that they never thought they would use, but could never throw away? The kid’s old toys, Christmas decorations, luggage, a wedding dress, military uniform?  What’s in my attic? Ed never finished the flooring, so we were beginning to run out of room for all the discarded or worn out items. That always-planned garage sale that I was going to have. Yeah, I was going to get rid of all my old stuff so I could buy new stuff. Stuff.  Hmmm. How ironic and now, how foolish it all seems.


Until my family is together again I will ache. Where is Linda, Phil, Doug, Lori, Brad, and Mom and Randy?  Linda promised me she would get everyone to safety, even if Phil refused to leave. 




We're All Children of the Storm

Katrina Journals - Entry One

SEPTEMBER 1, 2005


A week passed after Katrina turned our world upside down before I could begin to describe life as a "refugee". Finding ourselves in Lafayette, Louisiana as "refugees", my seven-year-old son and I tried to bring normalcy back into our lives. We had just set up Emily into her first apartment one month prior to the storm, giving her the opportunity to be "on her own". Attending UL, she was excited not having to live in the dorms again. My husband, Ed stayed behind in New Orleans, fulfilling his duty as a police officer. My journaling began to serve as an outlet for the surge of emotions. I hope to impart to the reader a sense of what it was like and what each new day brought us as we leaned on each other and learned the true meaning of compassion and neighborly love.


September 1, 2005

I have been awakened to the true devastation of the storm and it is not what can be seen by the cameras or described by the reporters. The children of the storm are living history. James is on the receiving end of charity and none of this has quite caught up with him, yet. The spirits of our children have been assaulted, as we try to restore innocence at every turn.


Today, I enrolled James in St. Genevieve Catholic School. He will start tomorrow. I was told that all fees would be waived; uniforms would be donated as well as school supplies and lunch. When I went to register Jacob, Duane’s 11-year-old brother into the public school system, I was overwhelmed with the sight. school board members and volunteers handling the process, with food, drink and toys for the children, as dazed parents tried to register their children for school. As people looked in each others eyes, the question was always,” Where are you from?" Answers were, "Westbank", Metairie, Uptown, New Orleans East, St. Bernard Parish, etc. Then it was "Where are you staying?  "How many got out with you?" "How old are your children?"  "What school are they from?"  "I can't find my mother, my sister is missing, my brother was on the roof, my elderly aunt was at Charity Hospital. Now I don't know where she is". The scene at the Vermillion Conference Center was like Ellis Island and we are called refugees. I'm actually introduced as a refugee. My son is receiving charity. But we are safe and sound.


Ed is back home, using oil lamps and conserving what little water he has left in the hot water heater - about 50 gallons, and bottled water - about 5 gallons. No food in the house except what he can eat out of a can. He is using the toilets, but has to manually flush with water. He went to see about other friends' homes and came across a policeman who was arresting a man trying to steal a car from the nearby dealership. Ed assisted, and the officer thanked him for the backup. It's every man for himself. Ed has also encountered stray pit bulls in our neighborhood looking for food. He said that he would shoot them if they looked like they were going to attack. You just can't imagine the situation and what he might be living through. I am in contact with him only once a day.


September 2, 2005. 

Well, today was a good day. James entered St. Genevieve School and began what I hope to be the road back to normalcy. His cousin, Madison (whom he had never met before) is in his class and was assigned to be his "helper" today. I left him and went into the church to pray. This was my first opportunity to go into a house of God and have a few moments of quiet solace. As I got on my knees, I was overcome with emotion and began sobbing. A small, white-haired elderly lady walked up to me and put her hand on my shoulder and said, "You're from New Orleans, aren't you?" I nodded and she asked, "Do you have a rosary?" I told her no, it was left in New Orleans. She dug through her handbag and pulled out a rosary that looked old and very used. She handed it to me. After I prayed the rosary, I looked for her and she was way in the back of the church. I walked up to give her back her rosary, and she shook her head and said, "No, it belongs to you, now."


God is moving among us. He is working through the meek and the mild just as sure as He is working through the heroic and dedicated rescue workers who are pulling victims out of the water.


I picked James up from school this afternoon, and drove up to the gate. I saw him sitting with a little boy about his age. They were singing a song and laughing. For him, God is working through the new friends he has made at his new school. Thank God for the children. They are the true "healers" in all of this.


One more day...


A New World

Friday, September 9, 2005


What was meant to be a few days has turned into a week of being referred to as a refugee or evacuee.  James, age 7 and I set our GPS for Lafayette.  Emily and fiancée, Duane had moved to a new apartment exactly one month ago.  Alternative to dorm living, they shared a two bedroom second floor apartment.  We packed an overnighter, and promised to be out of their hair in a few short days.  It's now been nine.  


Friday nights in downtown Lafayette are for families. A concert in the park, vendors and businesses open for business. Emily and Duane had never gone, so we all decided to load up the car and venture out. We arrived at the site around 8:30 p.m. It all shut down at 9:00 p.m. Toto, we’re definitely not in New Orleans anymore!  So, back home again. I was tired and went to bed.


Saturday, September 10, 2005

Today is Ed’s birthday. Today is also Duane’s birthday. By celebrating Duane’s, I felt like I was celebrating Ed’s by proxy.   We received another care package from Texas. Thank you all so much for the cards, letters and what was tucked inside. James loved the cards and jokes and we all got a kick out of Mamama’s note, signing off reminding James that she loved him "A jacket full of love" - a wonderful image – warm and cozy.


We really intended to get out and visit some sites in the city, but time got away from us and we ended up staying around the apartment.  We're living in parallel universes - we are relevantly comfortable, yet crowded, with all the luxuries and essentials, while two and half hours away, devastation, despair, and a barren wasteland.  Ed is still without power, living on MREs and navigating the debri-strewn streets to get to work.


I’ve cooked more in the last two weeks than I have in the last 20 years – or so it seems. I apologized to Ed and made a promise that I would do better in the future. I guess all those Methodist pot-luck suppers supplied me with a wealth of one-dish meal recipes – they’re coming in handy.  Chicken spaghetti, Frito pie, etc. The ability to double and triple recipes that I learned from those holiday visits to Lamesa is also a convenient trait.  Besides, James and me, there is Duane, Emily and Duane's two brothers and a friend - all under one roof, and all needing to eat. 


Sunday, September 11, 2005


Today, Emily, James, Duane and I attended the First Methodist Church in Lafayette.  The pastor's wife, Linda came up to us afterwards and I introduced my family to her. My Uncle Carl is also a Methodist minister and knew the pastor, so introductions were a welcoming "piece of home" feeling.  The pastor here was also a member of the Louisiana National Guard and has been called for duty to oversee the needs of the people now living in somewhat squalor at the New Orleans Superdome.  I can't imagine what he is witnessing and experiencing.  But, his Lafayette congregation was welcoming and gracious. The church reminds me of Lamesa’s church. I’m planning to join the choir and possibly a bible study group. Duane was excited about the bell choir, too. After church, we drove to Evergreen, LA to visit with Mom (Ed’s mother), who was visiting a nephew there.


A little background here on Mom....

Ed’s mother and dad met and married in Arnaudville, LA, a community situated on Bayou Teche, the same setting mentioned in Longfellow's poem Evangeline. It was a hard life. Pop worked as a sharecropper.  Ed lived with his parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles until age 9, when his dad left for New Orleans to find better work and a better life. It was during these years that Ed learned to speak and understand Cajun French. Cajun is short for Acadian and during the 17th century, the French living in Nova Scotia, a British colony, were given an ultimatum by the British government – either pledge your allegiance to England and fight against France, or be kicked out of Nova Scotia. Ed’s father’s ancestors came directly from France, and his mother’s ancestors came from Nova Scotia. The families who left Canada made their way to Louisiana because it was still a French colony. ( I may have some of this wrong.) After the many years that I have heard Ed tell of this historical event, I hope I have proven I was listening!


Mom never worked outside the home. In fact, she never learned to drive. She is a petite woman who has a great sense of humor, is very sentimental about families, friends and church. She kept her family clean and fed and instilled in the children a sense of responsibility and compassion. The LeCompte’s were a devout Catholic family that adhered to the teachings of the Church regarding obligation and family values. Pop was the head of the family, provided leadership and strength, especially in times of trial. Ed, as the first born, grew up knowing his position as the next in line to take care of the family unit. His younger brother, Randy (my age) is mentally challenged and has always lived at home with Mom and Pop. His brother, Phil is also strong and deliberate, but has never been as attentive to family matters or community needs; has no real interest in matters outside his immediate family, but that's ok because he is fiercely loyal and steadfast. Sister Susan, the baby is also Ed’s god-child, as is her first born, Brad. She has 4 children and lives in Kentucky.


Pop fell ill and died about 2 years ago this Easter. His death was devastating to Mom, who had come to rely on him for even the smallest matters. The last two years have been a growing experience for her as she has had to lean on her own judgment and learn to live without her soul mate and partner. Her home was her sanctuary, a place she communed with God and of course, Pop on a daily basis. She always found little “signs” around the house or yard that she swore was Pop “talking” to her. She confided in me frequently about her undying love for him and how his spirit was always comforting her. After we all evacuated, I talked to her about leaving her home. She was very reluctant and it took Phil and Linda to convince her to leave. As she described to me, as she placed her key in the front door, she said to Pop, “Stay here, Pop and take care of our home. I’ll be back soon.”


If you have watched the news unfold on t.v., you may recall that the most devastated area in the New Orleans area is St. Bernard Parish, where almost every school, government building, church, and home was under 10-20 feet of water. Mom’s home is among those buildings, and Mom is among the thousands left homeless.


As she sobbed over the phone to me a few days ago, I could only try to comfort her, assuring her that she would always have a home with us or we would help her rebuild near her sister in Arnaudville. I tried to lend perspective by saying that Pop chose to stay with her, for he knew that her life was much more valuable than anything else. She chuckled a little, saying between sobs, “Pop never did listen to me, anyway!”


Out of this loss, we have actually found something much more valuable than the material things we all tend to collect. I know that I will simplify my life and get rid of the clutter, for it can all be swept away in a moment.


Going Home to Reality

Wednesday, September 7, 2005


Duane took James to school this morning, while Emily and I headed for New Orleans. The authorities were allowing citizens entrance into Jefferson Parish just long enough to retrieve personal belongings and get out. They began this process on Monday, September 5, but Ed advised against our going on the first day, so we waited until the last day. With us, we brought two ice chests full of ice (one had beer hidden in the bottom) and battery operated fans and lamps. Ed would be working that day, but promised to see us after he got off. We also brought about ten boxes to collect some essentials and items that were special requests from a 7 year old child of the storm. 


Armed with a list organized by room, we would each separate into different parts of the house and fill the boxes with the items listed for each room. In James’ room, (he prepared the list the night before), he had the following items listed: karate uniform, scout uniform, basketball, the red/white/blue patriotic Buzz Lightyear and any other one (we packed three!), the charger to his Gameboy Advance, a belt, school shoes, some cards, and a teddy bear he’s had since he was born. From the kitchen, we took cake pans for making Duane a birthday cake, the Magic Bullet food chopper, my favorite Methodist Morsels Cookbook, a cookbook full of Mamama’s recipes and other family members’, the scales (trying to stay on that diet!), and some boxed food. Em was in charge of the den, where she found and packed James’ play station and games, some movies, and a few small toys left out.


I was eager to pack my bible, The Purpose Driven Life, some books by Joyce Meyers, and clothes and makeup. I was especially glad to add to my Lafayette wardrobe another pair of shoes besides the flip-flops I had worn for so long that they were so smooth and slick I had to grip the edges with my toes to keep them on!  They are now referred to as the Storm Slippers and have been exiled to the back of the closet, preserved for posterity.  Some day, my grandchildren might enjoy hearing stories about where those “storm slippers” have walked!


As we approached the area from Hwy. 90, going through all of the small towns along the way, the scene steadily transformed from a few tree branches down or broken, to entire houses or businesses collapsed. Then, we were driving at a snail’s pace as each car was stopped by National Guards checking I.D.s.  If you were not a resident, you were turned away --- unless, you were carrying supplies such as food, generators, water or ice. We finally arrived at our house around 10:00 am.


We pulled into the driveway, speechless at what our neighborhood looked like. There was not one house or tree that had not been hit. Since our back fence was gone, Ed had been letting the two dogs stay in the neighbor’s yard. (Ann and John had left him the key to the gate). Lucy and Reece, when they saw the familiar white car, began barking and wagging tails. We were just about to jump out of the car and greet our family pets, when I noticed two large black pit bulldogs sauntering up the sidewalk. Emily and I froze. Ah-ha. These must be the two dogs Ed described to me a few days earlier, saying that he was trapped in his truck as the dogs stood and stared at him as if he was a pork chop. Ed has a vivid imagination, but I didn’t want to take a chance. These twin Cujos looked hungry and determined to find food. We waited until they got tired of staring at us, and went back in the direction in which they came. So, Emily and I devised a plan of how we could get the packed boxes to the car safely.


One of us would stand at the trunk of the car like a secret service agent and stand guard against wild, rabid dogs (that would be Emily), while the other would run with the packed boxes through the minefield of torn branches, thousands of shingles and magnolia buds (uh, that would be me). After a few trips in this mode and several near-broken ankles, a few scratched toes (remember, the flip-flops!), and more than a few curse words, I looked up and saw a man about six houses away working in his yard. At his feet, were two large black pit bulls romping and playing, wagging their tails and (I swear) laughing. So much for the wild, savage beasts that were terrorizing the neighborhood – and Ed was not raising the bedroom window at night because he just knew they would charge right through the screen and tear him apart whilst he slept. Oh, why do I listen to him!!


The rest of the packing and loading went smoothly, and Ed came home around 4:15. We sat on the back porch and visited, cried a little, and listened thoughtfully to each other; something that neither of us had done in a long time. Note to self: Be a more attentive wife; communicate more effectively and be more loving and giving. This was the part of the vows that mentioned  "for better or worse".


We had to leave at 5:00 in order to get through the checkpoints, and so we hugged and kissed good bye and took some pictures. It was a bitter sweet reunion with Ed and with our neighborhood and home. The two big magnolia trees we planted when we built the house 24 years ago. We have a picture of me standing next to the young tree when I was pregnant. The tree was as tall as me. We hid Easter eggs at the base of the trees and have a picture of baby James in an Easter basket surrounded by stuffed rabbits nestled under the tree. The canopy of the magnolias provided us with shade and the large swing hanging from a sturdy limb was the perfect perch for friends and children who came to visit or play. The trees must be cut down now due to the hurricane’s force. The oak tree in the back yard is uprooted and the long-promised tree house will not be built for a certain little boy who was looking forward to helping his Dad build a real tree house with a trap door and everything! The irony is that the short, stubby Satsuma tree that found shelter under the oak through many freezes, is still standing – and has oranges on it. Satsuma ripen in the late fall, and I have on several occasions taken the sweet, seedless oranges home for Christmas. Hopefully, I will do so this year. They will serve as a sort of metaphor of the mighty hand of God. 


While there is destruction all about, His love and grace can pluck the tiniest, most fragile life and give it purpose and greatness. Somehow, we all must be destined for something and we all have a purpose, and sometimes the only way to recognize it is through sorrow and hardship.

Transitioning from Immediate to Long-Term 

Thursday, September 8, 2005


I talked to Ed this morning to see how the fans worked and the little lamp. He was upbeat and happy that he could now read at bedtime again, a ritual that he has observed for as long as I have known him. Of course, I told him to stop reading horror books – like Steven King’s Cujo. That only gets him in trouble!


I unloaded all the boxes from the car and went to the Dollar Store to get hangers, plastic put-together cubicles and other organizers. I’m trying to keep as much of our things as possible in Emily’s closet. James had been sleeping on an air mattress on the floor since we arrived, but I brought a cot from home so that now my child would have a “real” bed. It’s the pride thing, again. I didn’t want him to have to tell his friends at school that he was sleeping on the floor. I purchased a bed spread on sale at Walmart and made up the cot like a twin bed. He is against the wall with the windows. A small make-shift cubicle serves as a night stand between his bed and Emily’s. Emily and I sleep in her bed. There’s a bathroom attached to the bedroom with a large walk-in closet with floor to ceiling shelves in the middle – perfect for James’ folding clothes, underwear and socks.


I also went to the unemployment office today to drop off my application. I guess I had been putting it off, but have now come to the realization that I’ll need it. As the Executive Director of Chinchuba Institute, I am in contact with my faculty and staff, all of which are scattered to the four winds.  Some of their homes are damaged, and uninhabitable for the moment.  Our school was damaged.  The building we used for a Haunted House fundraiser was really messed up, but the volunteers (mostly teens) were anxious to go in and repair!  I can't even fathom opening up this season.


On the way to the unemployment office,  I stopped at the First United Methodist Church to call on the pastor’s wife, Linda. As many of the churches in town, this one was a bee hive of activity with evacuees. I buzzed the bell and a kind voice came over the intercom. I said that I was looking for the pastor’s wife – my uncle was a retired pastor named Carl Crouch. She immediately introduced herself and let me in. I connected almost instantly with Linda and immediately detected a tremendous inner strength and giving heart. While her husband has been called to serve and minister to those in New Orleans’ (Superdome) most dire and depressing circumstances, she is carrying on doing God’s work at home. Her cup runneth over with love for all of the victims she is helping.


We discussed the current tragedy and pondered what might happen 3, 4, 5 months from now when people are tired of giving or feel as though “their shift is up”. She said that she had already told her family that she was not buying any Christmas gifts this year – that she would be donating money to the Red Cross or some other disaster relief fund. I thought this was a great idea and one that might have legs. After all, she is probably right. By Christmas, there will still be those left homeless, children left orphaned, and families torn apart. Months and even years from now, the pain and suffering will still be there for many, and that will be when the world at-large will have had enough. If you watch enough violence on t.v., you soon become desensitized. Will this be the case? I pray not.


I believe I found a friend in Linda. We are both without our husbands and while she is on the giving end of this calamity and I on the receiving end, we have much in common. One thing for sure, our trust in the Lord and our leaning on His promises. Women of the Lord Unite! For we can do all things through Christ…

The Old Lady and the Rosary

As I focused on trying to make a dire situation not only tolerable, but as close to normal as possible for James, I leaned more on practical ways to achieve that.  Sometimes that is fine, but without the spiritual lift, the practical plans fall apart.


James was enrolled in a Catholic school in New Orleans when Katrina hit.  Only two weeks of school had been conducted when we found ourselves in Lafayette.  Upon realizing that this short-term stay may well be extended into weeks, or maybe months, I was in a state of panic thinking about school.  The Lafayette community, and the Catholic community in particular reached out to the evacuees, embraced us and welcomed our children into their schools.


Without the usual red tape and bureaucracy, all that was required was that we show up for school.  No tuition, no documentation, no uniforms or no supplies were needed.  All would be furnished.  What a relief.


Many Catholic schools are affiliated with a church within steps of the school buildings.  One morning I dropped James off at school, and walked over to the church to pray.  I entered the doors, of St. Genevieve Catholic Church, made the sign of the cross and walked to a pew where I knelt.  I immediately felt an overwhelming emotion come over me, an uncontrollable urge to cry -- no, sob.  As I unleashed all of the pent up fear, sadness, feeling of abandonment and sheer despondency, I wept silently.  Praying for nothing, and everything at the same time.  Crying on God's shoulder while asking Him for help, I had never felt so alone.  I pulled myself together and rose to my feet.  There was only two or three people in the church, and one was an old woman stooped and frail.  My guess was that she followed a daily ritual of coming into the church for morning prayers.  She shuffled slowly toward me.


The woman approached.  She said, "You are from New Orleans, aren't you?"  I was a little surprised at her perception.  But, she knew the answer.  I said, "Yes ma'm."  She handed me her rosary.  Now, I will be the first to admit that I have never made it a habit to recite the rosary, but I did know how, and took the rosary from her wrinkled hand.  "Thank you," I said.  She turned and walked back to the back of the church.  I returned to the kneeler, got on my knees and began to pray the rosary.  The repetitive prayers began to calm me down until I was completely at peace as I focused on God's love, His grace and the gift of the Holy Spirit.  I completed the ritual, and turned to walk to the woman who was still in her pew.  I walked to her and reached my hand out to return the rosary to her.  She gestured with her hand, waving it to say no.  She looked at me and said, "No.  You keep it.  It is yours now.  God bless you."  Through her eyes I could see the gentleness of God, the assurance that He heard me and that I should go now and execute the "practical" plans I had made before coming into the church. 


Proverbs 3:5-6 

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.

Indoor Camping with Rita - No Escape

September 25, 2005


Rita was the name of my best friend in grade school. Rita Robinson is the only person I have ever personally known with the name Rita. Now I know a hurricane.


It was Friday, September 23 (sister Terri’s birthday). Just when we were beginning to feel nature’s gentle side – the hot, sunny days in Lafayette, the cool evening breezes, and the clear night skies, we were sent a reminder that Nature is still the boss. While a voluntary evacuation was in order, we, quite frankly, had nowhere else to go. If I chose to head to family in Ft. Worth, I would be destined to meet up with evacuating Houstonians somewhere along the interstate, adding my clan and self to an already untenable situation.  I did not relish the idea of finding ourselves as all of the other evacuees that were already looking like “refugee roadkill” languishing on the side of the road waiting for those imaginary fuel trucks. Choosing to return to New Orleans was out of the question since the still fragile levees threatened a very vulnerable city with another devastating flood. No, we had to stay right where we were.


Two of our clan, Duane’s brothers James (referred to as James,the elder) and Jacob went with one of James’ co-workers to Opelousas (about 20 miles up the road) to sit out the storm. With those two gone, we prepared for a 24 hour indoor camping trip. Emily and I went to the Dollar Store – remind me to purchase stock in this corporation. With a basket full of flashlights, batteries, and Slim Jims (my children’s favorite snack), we felt fairly ready. Thanks to a care package sent by family, we had an endless game of UNO going while we watched and listened for weather reports on Rita.


I made Helen Crouch’s pecan pie (never as good as her’s), and for lunch we had Mamama’s steak fingers, potatoes and carrots. One would never have guessed that we were waiting for a ferocious storm. All day, we watched the tall trees outside Emily’s apartment dance back and forth. Gusts of wind began tearing leaves and branches from the trees. Rain started coming in large droplets, then in sheets blowing parallel to the ground.  Heads down, we kept playing UNO.


After UNO, we watched I Love Lucy episodes, but I was ever aware of the potential horror that threatened us once again. Lafayette was on the edge of the hurricane - the eastern edge, which always is the worse place to be. The latest coordinates indicated that we would definitely get slammed by this storm with winds up to 50 miles an hour, gusts up to 100, torrential rain, and possibly an onslaught of tornados. I’m a West Texas gal – I may not know too much about hurricanes but I do know about tornados! And it was the fear of the tornados that gripped me the most.


As darkness settled in, we all tried to get ready for bed. I had no intention of sleeping. I kept the small t.v. on in the bedroom and watched. We had already reviewed the plan for a tornado. Get in the hall and cover up with the futon mattress and all the pillows, and listen for a freight train. 


About 20 minutes after we were all settled, the emergency warning came blaring through the t.v. You know those obnoxious beeping warnings that you get late at night (usually a “test”). Well, this was not a test, as the voice said there was a tornado coming at us (about 10 miles away). His instructions were basically, “Do not wait until you hear it or see it, for it may be too late. Take cover now. Take cover now.” So up I sprung and calmly announced for everyone to get in the hall. Duane’s job was to pull the mattress from the futon and James was the designated “light saver” with the flashlights. James was weeping, something I wanted to do but didn’t dare. I would never have wanted to put him through this terror.


We crouched against the hallway wall like West Texas school children during an atomic bomb drill, but smothered by the pillows and blankets and mattress for what seemed like an eternity. We could hear the tremendous roar of the wind. I could feel the building vibrating. I realized that we still had power, so I decided to crawl back to the t.v. and see what else they might be saying. Scrolling on the bottom of the screen like a neon sign were the instructions for a tornado:  “Get in the lowest part of the house” DUH! We were up on the second floor, huddled like newborn kittens. I was now panic-struck. I instructed Emily to run downstairs to her neighbor’s and ask if we could join them.  In hindsight, I realize I sent a wisp of a girl - 95 pounds of flimsy to face the elements of a mega-ton storm to blaze a trail for the rest of us.  But, luckily the railing was sturdy as she flew down the stairs to the the old couple below.  Ms. Kay welcomed us with open arms, and we camped out in her living room until dawn. Lined up on her sofa like dutiful children visiting the rich relatives, we sat wide-eyed and relieved.  She cleaned out her tubs and got out the flashlights and went to bed. We would wake her and her husband if necessary. (I still can’t imagine how six people were ever going to fit in two bathtubs!—another motivation to lose weight!)


In Keystone Cop fashion, we had rushed to get downstairs, grabbing pillows, shoes, flashlights, cell phones and radio, managing to arrive at Ms. Kay’s door in between gusts of wind and rain. Sitting on the sofa, I looked down at James’ feet. He had on one of his flip-flops and one of mine – a familiar one to all – the legendary “storm slipper”. Guess those shoes are not quite finished getting us around!


So, Saturday found us again trapped in the apartment watching the wind and rain, and wondering when this will all be over with. I am writing this at 3 a.m. Sunday and can still hear the wind whistling. But, the fact that I’m writing this means that I have been spared once again. Ed was very sickened to know that we were here facing danger while he was there. I have talked to him several times during the night and day. He had a fright as well when the Harvey Canal had a breach on our side of the river. It was patched quickly, but if it had broken completely, our neighborhood would have been flooded, too. The stress of all of this is almost too much to bear. I look forward to happier times with my family united.


To all of you who have sent us packages, cards, and financial support, I cannot begin to tell you how much it has all meant to us. Your gestures of love have sustained us in so many ways. But, the acts of kindnesses and the prayers are so much more meaningful to us because they are from people who love us. You are truly like a bridge over troubled water, touched by God.  Your love is our safe harbor in the storm.


And he said to them, “Why are you afraid, O you of little faith?” Then he rose and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm.


Ominous Presence

September 28, 2005


Rita resulted in two days off of school, so James did not return until Tuesday. We took advantage of the two decent days we had after the indoor camping trip. We drove up the road about 8 miles to see if the zoo was open – but it wasn’t, so we found a Blockbuster and rented three movies – The Notebook, which I strongly recommend for romantics; The Beauty Shop, which was funny, but inspiring; and In Good Company, a comedy with a surprising ending. We were like deprived druggies reuniting with our evacuee dealer – we had not been in a Blockbuster since pre-Katrina, so we went a little bananas, and “stocked up”. Our gluttonous appetite for a current movie video got the best of us. Instead of savoring and rationing the entertainment, we sat for 6 hours straight, enjoying the euphoric “high” you get from being a couch potato temporarily oblivious to the stresses of the world. (They were all 5 day rentals! They may as well have been 5 HOUR rentals!)

I am beginning to notice a pattern, here. We tend to do things to extremes, don’t we?

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I am now earnestly working on getting the school back up and running. If you visit the website (chinchuba.org), I have posted a letter to the parents and am in the process of locating them and taking a “head count”. I have 5 that can return, so we will start with half of the staff, then work our way back up as more children return. There is a possibility we will pick up children from other programs that are not able to re-open. Bad for them, but good for us.


A story of Karma:  what goes around, comes around, or “reaping what you sow”.  When Emily was a few months old, I established a support group in New Orleans for families of children with craniofacial anomalies. During my organizing of this group, I received training from another group sponsored by Children’s Hospital called “Parent Link”. This group was made up of parents who helped other parents through various kinds of support – babysitting, counseling, transportation, etc. I learned a lot from my association with this group that has stuck with me for years. The Parent Link group was disbanded when Children’s Hospital could no longer fund it and it later reorganized as “Families Helping Families”. Today, FHF is a very well-run and effective organization in Louisiana, with a mission to provide support for parents of children with special needs, parent training and education as well as being a resource for professionals. Emily’s neighbor is a single, African American mom with a twelve year old Downs Syndrome son. She helped Duane’s family find Christian shelter after Katrina, and has spent time talking to us about our own situation. One day, she popped over with a check for $100 for me. Two days later, she delivered another $100 check for Duane. This time, she was wearing a t-shirt that read “Families Helping Families”.  Turns out that she works for the organization and had submitted our names to the group and because of Emily’s hearing disability and Jacob’s ADHD, the group wanted to help us directly with our expenses. It is funny how I have been put on a path where I am likely to meet up with “my past”. Cynthia and her son, Aaron will not soon be forgotten, and are now two lives who have been added to the many that I have come to know in my new world.


Taking James to school this morning, we passed an old shopping center that has been transformed into a staging area for the military. Lined up in perfect alignment are about 30 military trucks, about 2 dozen eighteen wheelers, satellite dishes, and various types of equipment. It’s a little unnerving to see this massive military presence intruding on an otherwise quaint country town. Of course, we feel secure, but imagine you going down to Claiborne’s or heading over to Davis’ Furniture and finding yourself surrounded by hummers and gun-toting National Guard. Now imagine being stopped at the checkpoint on the corner of Hillside Drive. Puts things in a new perspective, huh?  Yes, an ominous presence, but a reminder of the mighty presence of God - always ready and prepared to help us in our darkest hour of need.

The Homecoming

Emily and I went with James to his first Cub Scout meeting here last night. His new friends, Cody and Ben were there with their moms. Transferring him to this council will not be difficult, but he prefers to leave his old council patches and insignias on his uniform. The moms were very nice and told me how to get to the Scout office and store to purchase his new handbook.


This morning I took him to school, then came back and took Emily to school, Afterwards, I started on my journey to the Scout store. Of course, I took a tour of the city (that’s code for “I got lost”), but finally did stumble upon it. On the way home, Ed called me on my cell phone.


Tomorrow will be the day that he and his brother Phil drive into St. Bernard Parish and into the neighborhood of their adolescence and up to the door of the home that Pop spent a lifetime to pay for and provide to his wife and family. While some members of the family (no names mentioned) are trying to “brush aside” the emotional side of this event—trying to get Mom to “move on” and find a house elsewhere, Ed and I are expressing a need for caution and deliberation and most of all – time. Time to come to grips with the finality of the destruction; time to grieve the tremendous loss; time to give thoughtful prayer and time to plan for an uncertain future. As he was talking to me about this dreaded trip into St. Bernard, his voice broke and he began to cry. This moment, just following a happy jaunt to the scout store, brought back the realization of the raw pain that lies just beneath the surface, and the deceptive mask of "normalcy" we are all trying to wear.  We all have a piece of our heart in that home where Thanksgiving dinners were held, Easters were spent, grandchildren played and where Pop lived his last days.


What did this home represent besides 35 years working as a mechanic at Greyhound and taking two part time jobs. Just your typical working class man with a family of three sons, a daughter and wife doing what hundreds of thousands of men do every day. A modest home with a one car garage and room enough in the back yard for a vegetable garden and a hand built shed for the dove, the quail, the baby chicks, etc. that Pop had a passion for raising (depending on the year). His schemes always included raising the foul, then preparing it for slaughter and a place on the dining table. However, he always ended up naming each one of these vulnerable creatures, taming them to sit on his shoulder or eat out of his hand, and never killed a single one. The back yard was always well populated with his latest “project”. 


Sometime in the 1960s, the grown children of Popay (Pop’s dad) sat around a kitchen table after his funeral. The eldest of the children took a rusted old tin can from the top shelf and pulled out a wad of money held together by a dozen rubber bands. So old were the rubber bands that with each unwinding, they snapped and broke. The bills were then straightened out and counted before the heirs and their spouses. $10,000 was counted out and each sibling held out a hand as $2000 was placed carefully inside each. Ed was thirteen when he reverently witnessed this splitting of an old man's assets.  He vividly recalls the solemn event and the reverence in which the “estate” was divided. Some things are not to be fully realized by children that age, but at some point I am sure that Ed has come to understand the symbolic significance of that single event.


This was all of the money that Poppay had saved all of his life. This family’s ancestors were among those French peasants, farmers and merchants deported and scattered in 1755 – some sold into slavery, some adopted away from their families, some died on ships or on the journey.  Those who survived the harsh elements lived to carry out the names, pass on their language and heritage to each generation. Cajuns are said to be very clannish, "tribal" in their protection of their ancestry and heritage. Popay worked hard to support his family as they lived, and managed to leave behind an inheritance that could give each a pathway to a better life.  His children understood that this small inheritance each received represented their own father’s hard life. Out of this understanding and deep respect, none spent frivolously or trivialized this gift. Pop used his share to put a down payment on a home in St. Bernard Parish, about 8 miles from New Orleans, moving his family one step further away from poverty.


In a previous email, I wrote about the list of things from my house that Emily and I retrieved, far less valuable, it turns out than the list Mom gave to Ed for retrieval --  the family bible, Pop’s rosary, the flag that draped his coffin, and their 50th wedding anniversary picture.


A small, neat red brick home with white trim, a manicured lawn -  its symmetry indicating a kind of 1950's architectural balance, holding the sweat equity of two generations and the memories of a lifetime.  All gone.  Pulled apart from within and without, left gray, dingy and stained by mold, visible waterlines and the familiar spray-painted X on the door indicating the property had been inspected and searched for survivors by strangers.


Tomorrow will be a very, very sad day for Ed and the LeCompte family.


Another twist and turn on this rollercoaster...

The Snow Globe

October 1, 2005


The scene was like something out of a World War II bombing raid. Neighborhood after neighborhood, street after street and house after house, the devastation evidence of something more powerful than man, more ruthless than any evil one can imagine. Cars turned upside down in yards, buses end over end leaning against houses, boats sitting in the middle of the street. Ten, twelve, fourteen feet of snake-infested Mississippi River water had surged over the levees and into the streets, rising at an estimated rate of one foot per hour. No home was spared and no life was left unmarred.


Ed and his brother, Phil looked like they were going hunting on this late September dawn. A cool front had arrived and was a welcome change as they loaded up the truck with hip boots, rain gear, a generator, flashlights, water, and shot guns. They were going hunting alright, but not for deer, squirrel, rabbit, or duck – the typical targets here in the state called “The Sportsman’s Paradise”. They were on a quest, an expedition for buried treasure. Maps were of no use, for the water and debris had washed out the roads, and street signs were blown over or blown away. The route was a familiar one, traveled for years by both sons. They could find the spot with their eyes closed.


Ed had called me the day before and we had talked about what lay ahead – the shock, the despair, the gut-wrenching pain and sadness that he would experience going back to the family home. He was emotional, but trying to prepare himself. Taking Phil along would give him support – give each other support. He was not too hopeful about finding the items on his mother’s list, but promised to pull out anything that looked like it could be cleaned up.


The two brothers arrived at the house and donning the “hunting” gear, entered the darkness that once shone with the light of love and laughter. The quietness was eerie. Nothing was where it once stood. Several inches of black gooey mud formed a slick surface over the once-immaculate linoleum floor. The ceiling had crashed in, with water-soaked insulation all over the rooms, on tables, beds, counter tops. The recliners – his and hers – were no longer in the living room, but had floated down the hallway and into the master bedroom where the bed was jammed caddy-cornered against the wall, and the dresser had turned over on its side. It was in this room that the treasures, if they still remained might be unearthed. The brothers had memorized the list: the family bible, Pop’s rosary, the flag that had draped his coffin, and the photo album of their 50th wedding anniversary.


A bible was picked up out of the muck, but it was debated whether it was the same as the one on the list. Phil remembered that the family bible had numerous $2 bills tucked inside its pages. Pop had saved these bills for all of the grand children. If the bills were found, then they would know that this was the right bible. Alas, the large family bible was found amongst the debris inside the closet. Its cover and pages were soaked with muddy water, but still inside its pages, the two dollar bills. They could check this off the list.


Pulling up the fallen dresser, still full of clothes, Ed noticed a box damaged and soaked. Was this the box that held the American flag?  The one given to the veteran's wife at the funeral service of a patriotic and loving husband and father?  Yes. Phil took the triangular box with "old glory" folded inside. Another check off the list. 


Rosaries are often hung on the bedposts, and there on the bedpost, still hanging was the blessed rosary, beads and cross glistening in the light of the flashlights. It could be cleaned up.


Last was the photo album, and it was found among the debris, wet and muddy, with images barely recognizable. But for she who would eventually hold it in her hands again, the memories would fill in the missing details of the moldy, muddy photos.  Mission accomplished!


Mom collected knick-knacks. Delicate figurines of angels and hummingbirds made of china and spun glass displayed behind closed glass curio cabinet doors to be admired, but never touched (especially by the grandchildren!) I implored Ed to try to find any of these precious items that were not on the list, but if found, would give Mom pleasure.  Lagniappe, as is the term we use in Cajun Country.  (it means "a little extra")


This story needs some context and a bit of acknowledgement in reality. Sending two men into a home to retrieve dainty delicate mementos is never the preferred plan of action. However, since the women folk were unable to go into the rubble, the mission was reluctantly given to the grown men of valor and fearlessness. (Did I mention that the shot guns were not for looters, but for snakes, other “wild” animals, and in Ed’s case, even spiders!).


The curio cabinet was in bad shape, but could be reached by moving the t.v. Going through the back of the case, Phil was able to pull and tug until it was accessible. Sadly, all of the figurines were smashed….except for one. This was the snow globe that I had given to Mom on the first anniversary of Pop’s death. It was a musical snow globe that played Pop’s favorite hymn, “How Great Thou Art”, and held an angel with outstretched arms within. Shaking it would release tiny specks of gold flakes – a heavenly scene, indeed. Gently lifting it out of the cabinet, with a surgeon’s care, Phil held the beautifully detailed and intricately carved snow globe. Holding it with both hands, he marveled at the miracle that it was in one piece.


The moment must have been solemn. The darkness was only shattered by the light from the flashlights that the men carried. It must have been very difficult to see what was standing or lying in the shadows. With hands full of “treasures”, Ed turned to get a look at the one surviving remnant of a valued collection. With flashlight extended, he turned to his brother holding the rare find. A “clink” was heard. Eyes widened. Jaws dropped, as did the snow globe escaped from Phil's hands. Shattered among the mud, the sheet rock, the drenched insulation and the mold lay the snow globe in pieces. Gold flecks sparkled, still and silent, no longer dancing among the angel’s open arms. The stunned silence was suddenly broken by fits of laughter. Tightened muscles were loosed, tension was relieved, gloom was transformed into cheer. From the comic relief this moment provided, another funny story would emerge of Ed’s hap hazard attempts to take life too seriously. It inevitably back-fires, and has always been the source of much laughter and teasing from friends and family. Pop would have laughed, too.


I choose to ponder the purpose or lesson in almost every event. Ed and Phil entered a home that had always been full of love and laughter. Lovingly, the two sons searched for and respectfully pulled from the wreckage those items that represented the deep abiding love that was shared between husband and wife and a man and his God. What seemed to be missing was the laughter – this house was not a home without it. The Snow Globe and the angel within made sure that humor would have its place in the healing process we were all undergoing.


One “serious” lesson from this – if we are truly made in His image, then it is evident that God teaches through laughter as he does through disaster and pain, the lessons and purpose of life. God, if we would just lighten up a bit, we would learn through humor “How Great Thou Art”.


And by the way, I promised Ed not to tell anyone that he broke the snow globe. So, shhh.

The Storm is Over

Mom.  She had the style of a classy soap opera diva. With a knack for putting together an ensemble assembled from Wal-Mart, Sears, and the best of department stores, and then adding a bit of bling from the finest of jewelry stores, you would never know that this woman was pure country Cajun. 


The grand-daughter of immigrants, or rather deportees from Acadia- Nova Scotia, her French accent was as heavy as her laughter was light. She loved to dance and her love of the Cajun dance bubbled forth whenever there was a two step playing. She almost couldn’t contain herself, sometimes grabbing the nearest son or grandchild as a dance partner. She joked about the “old days”, almost in a self-deprecating way, eager to inform the listener that she would never ring the neck of the family’s chickens. She was that much a “lady”. But she always had a story to tell about growing up on the Bayou Teche with her six sisters and three brothers, parents, grandparents and an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins.


Her formal education was minimal, only completing the tenth grade. She married young and began having babies at the age of eighteen. She was a partner with her husband and worked alongside him in the cotton fields, three young boys in tow, the youngest placed in a crate, a kerchief tied around his head to keep the sun … and perhaps, the bugs at bay. Her work was not done at the sound of the foreman’s bell. She managed to spread her table with the nutritious bounty gathered from the fields and her own small garden. On those sultry Louisiana nights in Arnaudville, I imagine her giving dancing lessons to her eldest son, both barefoot on the cool hard wood floors; Cajun French voices and laughter coming from grand-parents, parents and children alike.


Her devotion to the Church was rooted in a simple country upbringing that instilled a tremendous sense of obligation to the tenets and the traditions of her ancestors’ dying culture. She celebrated and recognized all of the major feasts, holy days and rituals, but balancing them with the festivities and traditions of family. Family and Church were intertwined, knitting the community together in a seamless society organized by the parallel cultures. Large family gatherings centered on religious events/sacraments – marriages, baptisms, first communions, confirmations, and funeral masses.


Life’s hardships took a toll on the young family. Decades of carving out a meager living from the soil with rough and calloused hands ended when Pop found work in the big city of New Orleans. As a mechanic, he could provide more for his growing family. He bought a modest brick home in St. Bernard Parish, made possible with the small inheritance left him by his father. With the move, a daughter was born. Modern conveniences slowly infiltrated the household, making life easier. They had left the hard farm life behind forever. But, never did Mom part from the task of raising her children in a God-fearing home. And never did she shed the love of life, the humor and grace, or the appreciation of the love of one man. Four decades of laughter, tears, celebrations and memories made the St. Bernard house on Claiborne a home.


The most memorable thing about her could not be separated from the most memorable thing about the two of them. She was “one” with Pop. She was only complete when he was there, and after his death, she was never whole again. When he was alive, they could be across a crowded room from one another. Only those who knew to look could glance over at him and see him looking at her with the most wistful expression, mouthing “I love you, Mom”. And she would be gazing back, almost instinctively at the same time, answering him with an “I love you, too Pop”. The world would not stop, the noise did not taper. Two old people who had captured young love’s eternal bliss knew how to tune out the world, at any given moment and bestow on each other undivided attention and affection.


Only seven months after Katrina, she finished her time here on earth as another casualty of the storm that changed so many lives. She shared her many gifts with those who loved her and with those who only knew her slightly. She was a simple woman, from modest beginnings. She warmed us with her cackling laughter, her corny jokes, her shocking (mis)behavior at times, her poise, her grace, her kiss hello and her lingering wave good-bye. Her tiny hands soothed our worried brows. Her sparkle, her smile, her prayers comforted us. She was steadfast and reliable when our worlds were shaky and unstable. But, we could not do the same for her when her world was shaken.  As hard as we tried, we just could not mend her heart.  


I am truly the most blessed, for I was given the honor of being at her deathbed and having the last conversations with her. I sang to her and prayed aloud with her. She held my hand with her small, cool hand – a rosary clutched in it. I told her I loved her and in a soft voice, she said, “I love you with all my heart.” I told her that all of the love she had for us would stay behind to embrace us for the rest of our lives, and that all the love we had for her would go with her and never die. She smiled at that, and nodded. I could almost see the layers of stress, depression, anxiety and despondency peel away from her tormented soul. After months of drowning in the despair delivered by Katrina, she was finally at peace, liberated from the weight of a broken heart. I was there when she transitioned from this life to the next.


They say that the dying see visions of loved ones who have passed before them. Could that fading sparkle in her eyes have conveyed that across the crowded hospital room, Pop was mouthing “I love you, Mom”? It would not surprise me. This time, as she answered him, the world stood still.

There are many stories told, many books, and many poems about the eternal struggle of man against the elements. Paintings depict sailors and fishermen at sea fighting against the raging storms. Natural disaster movies have kept us spellbound as we watch whole cities crumble to the ground, civilizations abolished, cultures obliterated. Nature at its very worst cannot compare to the triumph of the human spirit at its God-inspired best. I know this because I bear witness. Mom, at seventy-six, wanted to be happy again; she lost hope; her faith was shaken. Starting over was beyond her imagination. Katrina robbed her of her golden years, robbed her of anticipated joy at attending grandchildren’s weddings, graduations, and future great-grandchildren’s births. 


Among the broken dishes, Katrina left behind broken dreams, pieces of a heart shattered. So, she could only cling to the surety of Pop’s love. It became her buoy in the storm’s aftermath, sustaining her and keeping her afloat - but only afloat and adrift. Now, together again, they bask in the sunlight of God’s grace. The storm is finally over for her.

Isaiah 43:1-2 

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

After the Storm

September 22, 2021 - Reflections


Each year we reflect on that period of time when we experienced Hurricane Katrina, the pain it brought to our lives and the lessons we may have reluctantly recognized or embraced.  For many, it is a faded memory, a mere bump in life's journey, a phenomenon that will be a footnote in our family's history for our grandchildren and their children. A tale that will give hint as to who we were.


I wanted to record it in real time, in a way that would lend perspective in years to come, and would somehow provide hope and encouragement to those who go through their own "Katrina".  At the end of the storm, there is always a rainbow, always a crisp, sunny day to be grateful for.


There are stories that were left untold, memories too deep or too painful to share, but always in my heart and soul to remind me of the love that God shares, the human kindness that He allows to be sparked by the burning embers that are those lingering memories.  Without them, we walk aimlessly, we feel nothing, and we have only apathy for the suffering.  In sharing my journals, I can only hope that the reader is touched in a way that will cause his own trials to serve as God's way of revealing Himself.  You are never alone.  You are not meant to travel solo.  You are created out of love, for love.


What my readers are saying

OMG!  This should be a book!  So inspiring!

Mary C.

I lived this, and your perspective is amazing and heartwarming.

Joseph C.

I love the story of the snow globe!  So descriptive and made me cry... and laugh.

Cathy L.

So much heart and heartbreak describing one of the worse events in our lives.

Gail R.

PLEASE write a book!

John S.


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