I was director/assistant pastor for a Christian-based drug and alcohol treatment center located in a low-lying area within Covington proper (close to Interstate 12 and Route 59). There were 40 men aged 17-70 who was residing at the six-month live-in facility, and on the turbulent Sunday before the darkening storm, we evacuated the majority (35 men to a church facility in Kentwood). I remained with 5 of the more rugged individuals who were skilled at tree removal, electricity, and cooking.

Bellowing clouds scraping ancient moss-covered trees bending as if in arthritic pain heralded the increasing roar of the accosting disaster. Katrina raged like Satan when Christ released the captives, and after the sun announced its burning survival, attempted to oppress our fragile humanity with suffocating heat and airless humidity. We survived the storm, but now were surrounded by five feet of septic-filled water, and no electricity (which would take almost two months to restore) so we began to cautiously venture into this new eerie landscape.

With a small gas-powered generator, and three chainsaws we began our affirmation of life. Over the next few weeks the men would wade in waist deep water to cut apart the countless trees that had fallen on the road leading to the facility. They carefully maneuvered around the many snakes slithering for survival, and when climbing on a fallen branch to reach another broken tree, were soon covered in biting ants fleeing from the swirling waters languidly draining into a nearby lake. The men from Kentwood had been moved to our other facility near Husser, but they too had no electricity and lacked the bare necessities for human comfort.

My main goal was to get gas, water, and food for our continued survival. I would wade out to high ground, where I had secured an old Ford Escort and would make a trip every other day to Baton Rouge to fill the back of the wagon with gas, water, and food from an almost empty Wal-Mart. Water was the most vital need and it was, at first, extremely hard to find. I must thank the Wal-Mart in Covington, where I had always shopped, prior to Katrina, for weekly groceries for the ministry. The ladies at the checkout counters knew me from these regular shopping adventures, and dragging two overfilled carts of supplies needed to feed the ravenous men residing at the ministry. About a week after Katrina I saw a mile-long line of cars waiting for a free water giveaway in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. I moved into the line (soon realized what it must have been like in the old Soviet Union waiting incessantly for crumbs of survival), and after two hours finally arrived at the loading point. There was a large sign that stated they could only give you one 24-pack of bottled water per car (rationing was in effect), and I would cheerfully take any that I could get. A worker efficiently handed me the ration, and as I loaded it in my car, one of the checkout ladies who happened to be there that day recognized me and asked how the ministry was faring up. Exhausted I told her about the battle of feeding and finding water for such a large group of hungry and thirsty individuals. Without hesitation, she spoke to the other worker, and they quickly loaded as much water as the small station wagon could carry. This was the boost I needed, the kindness that I feared was lost in disaster raised its banner of strength, and my spirit rose like the Phoenix to carry me in its glory as the area slowly began to bloom in newness.