No words can be arranged to adaquately describe the range and intensity of emotions experienced from Tuesday afternoon till I landed back in Denver last evening. New Orleans was an incredible experience. As I write this morning, I'll just try to express some of the emotions and the sequence in which they poured in to my head.
On a balmy Tuesday evening I received my first exposure to Bourbon Street. Neon Lights inviting you to come inside to view live sex shows and pornographic images plastered on the windows to give you a taste of what you'd experience if you decided to partake. Bourbon Street New Orleans is club after club of sex shows. Whatever your pleasure is, Bourbon street tries to offer it. As I tried to go to sleep that night, I couldn't help but think of the pain in the lives of the men and women just a few blocks away. Without yet seeing the Katrina devastation or the extreme poverty stricken neighborhoods I was already experiencing a layer of the pain of this city.
The next morning we went through our "Gutting a house for Jesus" orientation and then arrived at the house of Miss Oneta. One of the most profound images of the trip was pulling up to this house and seeing an expressionless face with one single tear coming down. I believe Miss Oneta's tear signified a thread of hope that we represented as we walked up to the front porch. She had been waiting 18 months to get this project underway. What you see in this picture is her house with much of the guts removed. We pulled the carpet and then began crowbar-ing and sledgehammer-ing the walls, pulling off moldy plaster and ripping out termite infested slats. We chipped away at this, another layer of the pain of New Orleans. We worked on gutting this house all day Wednesday and Thursday. Below you can see where the water settled in this neighborhood.
A very few scattered homes were being occupied. A man across the street worked diligently renovating the home of his mother. He had a beautiful new floor installed, stained the new trim work, and put up a plasma tv on the wall so that he could invite many displaced neighbors over for a Super Bowl party. Other than that incredible little story, this neighborhood was an eerie ghostown filled with devastation and fema trailers which housed many locals who won't leave their property.
After our second day of work, the entire crew was driven down to experience 9th Ward. 9th ward was actually a middle class neighborhood but happened to be located next to a weak levee. When the levee broke, many of these houses were lifted off of their foundation, floated around a bit and crashed into each other. In the background of this pic, you will see 2 homes that collided. In the foreground is the front porch and in the immediate foreground is a pair of children's shoes. My jaw was on the ground at this point. We were all speechless as if we were walking through a cemetary, which is pretty much what all this is...America's largest cemetary.
I never really wanted to blog about anything too controversial on this site, but I'll just be honest about what I was strongly feeling at one point during the experience... Anger. I began to ponder the man power and tax dollars being spent in order to restore Baghdad and I just got angry. I'll freely admit that I don't know the ins and outs of our government and the decisions that are made by the people at the top, but to see the vast expanse of devastation in New Orleans and to realize that the majority of our service men and woman are fighting a war in Iraq just left me confused and angry. I'd love to make a little mural of my photography from this trip and clutter the white house with it. (That's all I'll say about that.)
The next neighborhood that we toured after visiting 9th Ward made any low income neighborhood in Denver look immaculate. This was the lowest of the low. The spray paint on the houses indicated what was found inside and whether or not it was found living or dead. The house in this picture reads "D.O.A. something in back bedroom...keep looking"
The cool thing about the restoration effort is that it's been almost entirely tackled by the church. That was good to hear...but there's so much more that needs to be done. New Orleans has layer upon layer of pain and it is our responsibility to lovingly chip away at it layer by layer.
Reflection is necessary. What I mean is, a visit to New Orleans is necessary. If you walk by a mirror and you notice that a large booger is sticking out of your nose, do you just shrug your shoulders and keep walking? No, you get to a bathroom and take care of it.
James in chapter 1: 23-24 talks about how ridiculous it would be to look in a mirror and forget what we look like. New Orleans is our mirror. It's a 2 hour plane ride from Denver yet you feel as if it's an international experience. After getting a closer look at our reflection in New Orleans, me and those I was with from Adullam are compelled to act.
After each offensive set tommorrow night, Peyton Manning will reflect on the playbook and the mishaps of that offensive set and then he'll strive to make the necessary changes in his next set of snaps. Reflection is necessary for all of us in what ever we do if we desire to make things right.
New Orleans is a metaphor for the human soul. If we experience pain yet choose to move on and ignore it, a layer forms. After many episodes of this, so many layers form and hopelessness sets in. What I learned in New Orleans goes beyond that amazing city and into the needs of each and every human heart. Pain needs to be addressed and followers of Christ have a responsibility to be incarnate in the mess of it. More will be written...
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