A Beautiful Story!

There Is A Reason For Everything!!

Submitted by Betty Smith
(Saturday, October 20)

The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn , arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve. They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc, and on December 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished.

However, on December 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm - hit the area and lasted for two days. On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home.

On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped. One of the items for sale was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.

By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. So, the pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus due 45 minutes later. She quietly sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.

Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor,"she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?" The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG, were crocheted into it there. They were.

The woman broke into tears. You see, those were her initials. She had made the tablecloth 35 years earlier, in Austria! The woman could hardly believe her eyes as the pastor related how and why he had just gotten the tablecloth. The woman told him that before the WWII she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis invaded their homeland, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. But, he was captured, sent to prison and never saw her or their home again.

Touched by her story, the pastor insisted she take the tablecloth. But she adamantly refused, saying the church wall was the perfect place for it to hang. She didn't refuse, however, the pastor's offer to drive her home to the other side of Staten Island. She had been in Brooklyn that day only because she had a housecleaning job there.

What a wonderful service the whole church had that Christmas Eve. The church was nearly full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving.

The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike. He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between.

The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest reunion he could ever imagine!

Who says God does not work in fantastic, mysterious ways? So when the road you're traveling on seems difficult at best. Just remember to pray and God will do the rest.

When there is nothing left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need!!

Heaven's Spelling Bee

Spelling To Get Into Heaven

Submitted by Carolyn Edwards
(June 24, 2007)

A woman arrived at the Gates of Heaven. While she was waiting for Saint Peter to greet her, she peeked through the gates. She saw a beautiful banquet table. Sitting all around were her parents and all the other people she had loved and who had died before her. They saw her and began calling greetings to her "Hello - How are you! We've been waiting for you! Good to see you."

When Saint Peter came by, the woman asked: "This is such a wonderful place! How do I get in?"

"You have to spell a word," Saint Peter told her.

"Which word?" the woman asked.

"Love."

The woman correctly spelled "Love" and Saint Peter welcomed her into Heaven.

About a year later, Saint Peter came to the woman and asked her to watch the Gates of Heaven for him that day. While the woman was guarding the Gates of Heaven, her husband arrived. "I'm surprised to see you," the woman said. "How have you been?"

"Oh, I've been doing pretty well since you died," her husband told her. "I married the beautiful young nurse who took care of you while you were ill. And then I won the multi-state lottery. I sold the little house you and I lived in and bought a huge mansion. And my wife and I traveled all around the world. We were on vacation in Cancun and I went water skiing today. I fell and hit my head, and here I am. What a bummer! How do I get in?"

"You have to spell a word," the woman told him.

"Which word?" her husband asked.

" Czechoslovakia ."

Answer To Prayers? Divine Appointment? Both?

By Chuck Cooper
(June 22, 2007)


Her entire family was absolutely thrilled when her physicians in Illinois declared in late November 1975 that the radioactive gold implanted to treat her two-year fight against uterine cancer appeared to be working! In fact, her docs said her strength had improved so much that she could even take a plane trip to her native Georgia to visit her sister Helen and other relatives. Although requiring assistance, she and her husband boarded a flight from Peoria to Atlanta arriving safely at Helen’s home in nearby Lithonia.

Answer to prayers? Divine appointment? Both? Read on. You decide.

The day following her arrival she was visited by her oldest son and his family from Athens, GA and other relatives in the area. The whole Georgia family was literally shocked to see how much weight she had lost and how gaunt she appeared and how weak she seemed. Her ever-present bucket was a reminder that the radioactivity still caused recurrent, periodic vomiting.

The son said later that he might not have recognized her had he not known in advance that she was there reclining on Helen’s sofa. Only her sweet, loving smile was recognizable to him and his family although her facial expressions often betrayed her obvious pain.

Conversations with her were difficult and frequently interrupted by her drifting into sudden naps, leaving the family wondering if she could hear their conversation
while being careful not to awaken or upset her by what she may overhear.

When preparing to return to Athens that evening, the son asked what he could bring her or what she wanted to do the next day.

With alarming vigor and surprising alertness, she blurted: “Take me to Stone Mountain; I want to go to Stone Mountain.” Promising to return the next morning, the son, with tears in his eyes, silently kissed her on her cheek and left.

She was bright and cheerful the next morning and was obviously excited when the son showed her the borrowed motor home he had parked in Helen’s driveway. “You are going to see Stone Mountain in style today,” he teased her.

Stone Mountain was his ill mother’s favorite place in the whole world. She loved that mountain. As children living in the Atlanta area, she and Helen often visited the mountain and viewed the early stages of the Confederate Memorial carving depicting Jefferson Davis, General Robert E. Lee, and General Thomas Stonewall Jackson on their famous horses.

Too, the son also fondly remembered his summer vacations in Atlanta and the annual trips to the mountain with his siblings and cousins. On each visit they climbed with a family picnic basket and stared in wonder at the sites below. The children looked forward to that outing with excited anticipation, particularly because it became a tradition among family members to purchase a nickel Coca Cola from a washtub filled with ice at an old wooden shack which stood at the base of the walkup trail. That was in the Fifties - years before the carving was completed, long before beautiful Stone Mountain Park was created and when the shack was the only “attraction” around.

So, this outing with his ill Mother and her family was a special event for all of them. With the Mother silently gazing out the motor home’s large picture window at her beloved Stone Mountain and reminiscing about her childhood and family adventures there, it became obvious to all aboard the vehicle that this was a very “special” day together.

Having circled halfway around the mountain, the Mother became violently ill, vomiting uncontrollably, sweating profusely from an elevated body temperature, and moaning with pain.

Aborting the remainder of the trip, the son hurriedly returned to Aunt Helen’s house where she placed an urgent call to her doctor. He ordered the Mother to Dekalb General Hospital immediately and initiated tests right away.

The next morning, after consulting with her physicians in Illinois and analyzing the medical tests he had ordered the previous evening, the doctor informed the family that it was his opinion that during previous surgeries the Mother’s stomach had become twisted and that she would need surgery to correct the difficulty. The problem was that she needed to regain some strength before surgery could be performed.

Several days later the surgery was begun. It was then that the surgeons discovered a large, inoperable mass in her stomach and along her intestines. He advised the family to prepare for her death.

Late on the evening of December 19, 1975, Polly Dupree Cooper of Dooly County (Vienna/Unadilla) GA, age 61, died at Dekalb General Hospital in Decatur, GA.

She was my Mom!

Author’s Note: In the days immediately following Mom’s death, Dad revealed to all of us that Mom had persistently begged him to bring her to Atlanta. He believed to his dying day that Mom knew she was dying and wanted to see Stone Mountain one last time and then die in her native Georgia.

So, were Mom’s final days and ultimate death in Georgia an answer to her prayers? Did she have a Divine Appointment with God in Atlanta for her home going? I think both!

Post-Script: Fast forward nearly 32 years. Stone Mountain has become a very beloved place for both me and my wife, Sue, too. You see, we are now full-time RVers and are currently seasonal employees at Stone Mountain Park. Our RV spot in the Park’s campground faces the mountain where we can see it daily. It is surreal to see that mountain every day and to understand how special this place was to Mom and is now to us.

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t reminisce about my Mother and Aunt Helen, now deceased, and the fun times we had in days gone by. My, how both of them influenced my life. My, how this mountain is a reminder of the Christian heritage I have. My, how close I feel to both of them.

Somehow, they seem here, too!

(END)

Where The Heck Is The Fruit?

By Chuck Cooper
April 14, 2007




Two of my colleagues, both well-trained veteran employees of an Atlanta-area attraction, fired themselves this week. That’s right….they fired themselves!

Both falsely signed and dated a required safety inspection form stating clearly that they had completed the full inspection of a passenger-carrying vehicle, when in fact, they hadn’t. They took a senseless shortcut which could have endangered not only their own lives, but the life and limb of their passengers.

Quickly, they discovered that taking safety shortcuts is a huge “no-no” particularly in the “high risk” classification in which they were employed. They were both terminated immediately. Rightly so.

I have no idea what they used as excuses for their wanton disregard for safety procedures and for signing a false statement. What I do know is that no excuse is an acceptable one to my employer. Period. No relaxation of safety procedures is tolerated because “I’m having a bad day” or “I’ve got some personal issues at home” or “I’m on some medication which blurs my memory” or “I’ve got a bad back.” Zero tolerance should, and does, rule.

Do I feel compassion for them? Of course, I do. They were my team-mates and had been extremely helpful to me in learning the “ropes” of my new position. But, they were wrong and were held accountable for their actions. Their willful disobedience to company policy cost them a good-paying, fun job and reminded the whole team how important it is to strictly follow safety procedures.

I’m particularly perplexed because one of them is a professing, born-again believer in Jesus Christ. He is an active member of one of Atlanta’s largest churches and teaches Sunday School there. And, he would frequently initiate discussions about his faith with his believing team-mates.

Frankly, he was on thin ice to begin with. Our team-mates warned me about his negative, arrogant, me first attitude. He just wasn’t fun to be around. He constantly complained about the entire operation. He took great pleasure in telling new employees the best way “to mine this gold mine we’ve got here” with bigger tips. And he frequently pontificated that he didn’t care whether guests had a good time or not as long as they tipped him generously. He was a grumpy, unhappy man.

He made matters worse for himself when he “went off” on his supervisor and other managers who questioned him about his inspection report in a publicly-heard tirade spiced with “colorful,” inappropriate language.

Unfortunately, his behavior this week trashed his Christian witness and his credibility as a believer and follower of Jesus with all his team-mates and those within ear-shot of his tirades. The reason: his actions didn’t evidence any of the fruit we believers are supposed to bear. Where the heck was his fruit?

His self-imposed termination was the perfect example of being hanged by one’s own tongue. That is so sad!

I’m recording this incident as a personal reminder to me of how important it is for me, as a Christian, to be careful of the fruit that I bear. In all circumstances! The Scripture warns that we believers are to judge others and will be judged by our fruit – love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

How many times have I evidenced rotten fruit? How often have I lashed out in anger rather than in love? How often has my joy in the Lord been masked by anger or a bad attitude or selfishness? How often have I been negative about my circumstances or complained about the behavior of others to all who would hear? How often have I disobeyed the rules because I thought they applied to everyone but me? How often has my walk not lived up to my talk?

My prayer is that the Lord will convict my former team-mate of his lack of fruit in this instance, that the Lord will remind me of my own fruit-bearing shortfalls and that in reading this, you, too, will vow to be careful of the fruit you bear.

It’s our fruit that speaks loudly and clearly…much more so than our talk. Our fruit is our walk. Perhaps learning of this incident can be a lesson to all of us.

If I were arrested and hauled into court for being a Christian and the evidence presented against me was my “fruit” would there be enough to convict me?

So, how’s your fruit today?

(end)

Her Christmas Gift

By Chuck Cooper



By all accounts but one, twelve-year-old Allie was a “spoiled rotten brat.” Only her Grandma didn’t think so.

Family friends, neighbors and close relatives also thought she was undisciplined, selfish, presumptuous, rude, and the epitome of what the term “princess” implies.

In fact, she was so out of control and stubbornly uncontrollable that most of those who knew her secretly nicknamed her “Alley Cat.” For them, she was the poster child for the “Me First” generation.

Frustrated by her constant misbehavior and having no clue how to change her obnoxious attitude, her frazzled parents had given up. Nothing they tried seemed to work, primarily because Allie had learned that if she persisted long enough, they’d eventually give in. And, when they didn’t give in to her every demand, she’d pitch a “hissy fit” (a whole lot worse than just a plain old “fit”!)

Hoping against all hope because they loved her unconditionally, Allie’s parents concluded that she would eventually outgrow this “life’s stage.” So, they tolerated her tantrums and attempted to both appease and bribe her by giving her whatever her little heart desired.
Unwittingly, her parents had become the consummate “enablers.” Little did they realize that their permissive behavior would develop Allie’s “terrible twos” into what had become her “terrible” life style.

Weeks before Allie’s seventh Christmas, her folks suggested she make a list of the things she wanted Santa to bring her. They were both shocked and appalled when she presented them with a list of 21 items to send to Santa. Her list was detailed and specific even including the brand name for items she wanted and where Santa could find them.

At her parent’s insistence, Allie finally whittled the list to her “Ten Most Wanted” gifts. Included was an expensive half-carat diamond pendant she had seen on a television commercial from a local, upscale diamond boutique. (Ridiculous and impossible, you say? Read on!)

Eagerly ripping open her gifts with nary a thought of being grateful that Christmas Day, she suddenly erupted when she opened her last gift expecting to find the pendant only to discover it was a simple child’s pendant. “I told you I wanted that real diamond,” she screamed. “Why didn’t I get it?” she demanded repeatedly as she stomped out of the room, slammed her bedroom door and locked it. Just like the brat she had become.

Thirty minutes later, Alley Cat ceremoniously stomped out of her room and ignoring her parents attempt to console her, she picked up the pendant and tossed it into the blazing fireplace while screaming how much she didn’t want it.

Only an ungrateful, spoiled child would act that way!

Her Christmas list the next five years included the “real” diamond pendant, but both Santa and her folks ignored her demands for it, attempting unsuccessfully to explain that it was much too expensive and too “grown up” for her to have. Alley Cat made them pay for their decision daily those five years.

By the time Allie’s twelfth Christmas rolled around, things had changed in the household. Grandpa had died of a sudden heart attack and Grandma, suffering from terminal cancer, had moved cross-country so her only daughter could care for her during her last days.

Like all Grandmas, she dearly loved her only grandchild and was thrilled to spend some “quality” time with her. The attention and love she showered on Allie appeared to be working. Grandma’s presence somewhat tempered Allie’s outbursts as together they baked Christmas cookies, wrapped gifts, and placed the Christmas decorations in just the right places in the house.

Allie’s folks continually thanked Grandma for the positive influence she was having on Allie and commented how Allie’s behavior was slowly improving.

One afternoon as Allie and Grandma were creating a Christmas wreath for the front door, Grandma asked Allie what she wanted for Christmas. Without hesitating, Allie told her about the diamond pendant she had wished for the past five years, but hadn’t gotten. (She skillfully neglected, however, to tell Grandma what a brat she had been about that pendant or that she had burned up the pendant her folks had tried to give her.)

That evening, after Allie had finally succumbed to the “sleep fairy,” Grandma relaxed with her daughter and son-in-law sipping a cup of hot cocoa topped with mini-marshmallows and munching on freshly baked Christmas cookies.

“I’ve been thinking about Allie’s Christmas gift from me,” she told them, “and I want to run an idea by you. What would you say if I gave her my diamond wedding ring?” she asked.

Before they could answer, Grandma defended her decision to do just that. She explained that because of her cancer she was convinced that this would be her last Christmas alive, that Allie had told her about her desire for a diamond pendant, and that she’d like nothing more than to give the ring to Allie, both as a keepsake heirloom and a reminder of how much Grandma loved her.

“Perhaps, some day,” she said, “Allie will be proud to wear that very diamond as her own wedding ring.”

When her daughter protested that Allie was too young to appreciate it, Grandma confidently replied: “One day she will, especially when she’s aware that this ring was originally my Grandmother’s. It has been in the family for four generations. I’ve never taken this ring off since Grandpa placed it on my finger more than 55 years ago.”

She continued: “This is the only thing of any value that I have to leave Allie after I’m gone and I’m determined to give it to her now so I can enjoy her excitement of receiving it.”

As tears trickled down the cheeks of all three adults, Grandma divulged her plan. “I’m going to take it to a jeweler, have it cleaned and tightened and then buy a fancy ring box for it. I’ll tie a pretty red bow around it and give it to her after she’s opened all other gifts on Christmas morning.”

“Boy will she be surprised!” she told them, “particularly when she opens my card to her. I’m going to include a hand-written history of the ring that she can keep and someday, maybe, give it along with the ring to her own granddaughter.”

Grandma’s eyes sparkled with anticipation! Now it was Grandma who couldn’t wait until Christmas Day! The spring in Grandma’s step suddenly returned. She seemed to have more energy than usual and she was fully invested and infested with the Christmas spirit. And, she constantly fantasized about how much Allie would enjoy her Christmas gift from Grandma.

Somewhat skeptical, Allie’s folks bought into Grandma’s idea. They, too, looked forward to Christmas morning. Their hope was that Grandma’s thoughtful, generous gift would so surprise Allie that she would finally appreciate all that had been done for her and how much she was loved even when she didn’t get her own way.

Christmas morning finally arrived and, as usual, Allie ripped into all of her gifts, carping constantly because they weren’t precisely what she wanted and showing no gratitude whatsoever for any of them.

Grandma sat patiently, waiting the right moment when Allie finally calmed down a bit. When she asked Allie to come sit next to her on the sofa because she had a gift to give her, Allie quickly responded.

Without much fanfare, Grandma explained that she had a special gift she wanted Allie to have and hoped the youngster would treasure it for the rest of her life.

When Grandma handed her the gift, Allie looked the package over carefully and at Grandma’s urging began to open it. She carefully untied the ribbon and slowly opened the box as she expectantly peeked inside.

Grandma wasn’t prepared for the horrendous scowl on Allie’s face and was devastated to tears by Allie’s verbal condemnation of Grandma’s precious gift. “Why did you give me this stupid old ring? I told you I wanted you to give me that diamond pendant I told you about,” Allie screamed as she pitched both the ring and the unread card into the fireplace and stomped off to her room.

Heart-broken beyond measure and with uncontrollable tears streaming from her eyes, Grandma, unable to speak, simply stood up and, amid protests from her daughter and son-in-law, slowly left the room.

Because she was so spoiled and ungrateful, Allie had no awareness of how much Grandma loved her or how much she had hurt Grandma. Her selfishness prevented her from appreciating what had been offered her. She had no clue of how much time and effort Grandma had spent to select and prepare the gift. She had zero understanding of how precious that gift, if accepted, would eventually mean to her.

Because of her “all about me” attitude, Allie callously rejected the most precious Christmas gift her dying Grandma could have possibly given her. What a pity!

What about you? Are you an “Allie”? Have you ever rejected a gift presented to you in pure love? Has your callous indifference ever caused you to throw a gift into the fireplace? Or, put it back in the box and placed it “out of your way” on the top shelf of your closet only to forget it was there until you re-discovered it while looking for something else? Or, have you ever rejected what you considered a useless gift by re-wrapping it and re-gifting it to someone else? (We won’t go there today!)

Perhaps you have been a “Grandma,” enduring heart-breaking physical pain because an “Allie” not only rudely rejected your carefully chosen gift but rejected you and your love as well.

You see, it’s one thing to recognize something as a gift; but it really doesn’t become your gift until you accept it, until you receive it, until you embrace it, until you internalize it, and until you claim it as yours.

Arrogant Allie didn’t do any of these things. Her selfish, “me-first” attitudes (which both she and her parents allowed to develop over the years) hardened her heart to the extent that she rudely rejected both the gift and the giver.

This story about Allie’s rejection of her Grandma’s special Christmas gift, while purely fictional, illustrates the response many have chosen to the offering of God’s gift to all of us on that first Christmas Day.

Because of His love for us, God carefully planned and offered us the most fantastic gift we could ever receive - eternal life with Him in Heaven. He gave us the opportunity to develop a personal relationship with His son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross to take away our sin and make us worthy to live forever in God’s new Heaven and Earth which he will re-create for us. All we have to do is repent of our sin and accept His free gift.

What about God’s Christmas gift to you? Have you thrown it into the fire place? Have you rejected it because you believe it is useless to you? Or, have you accepted, received, embraced, internalized, and claimed it as your own?

What you decide to do about God’s Christmas gift to you will have serious eternal consequences for you!

A personal note: This story is my Christmas gift to you. It is given to you in love and was inspired by Dr. Ernest Easley, senior pastor of Roswell Street Baptist Church in Marietta, GA, during a brief message he delivered following the church’s “Christmas” program on Sunday evening, December 17, 2006.

Merry CHRISTmas!

He Lived And Walked His Faith

Captain Louis B. Smith was one of those two or three friends we develop over a lifetime who significantly influences us in ways we don’t consciously recognize until they are gone. He died early Saturday morning, September 30, 2006.

Not only did Lou talk his enduring faith in Jesus Christ to all who would listen, he was an example to me of how a Godly man actually lives and walks his talk. No, he wasn’t a perfect man; none of us are! Lou had spots and blemishes just like all of us do. But, his belief in and commitment to his faith was unwavering regardless of the challenges and storms life presented to him.

We first learned of Lou’s terminal illness late last Spring when he and his beloved wife, Betty, called from Jacksonville, FL to let us know that Lou had been diagnosed with acute leukemia.

He told us calmly and matter-of-factly that the doctors had given him three treatment options:

1. To do nothing and live about three months;
2. To administer partial chemotherapy and bone marrow transplant and perhaps live an additional month or two; or,
3. To attack the disease with full-blown chemo which he may not survive.

Lou was emphatic in relating his decision to take the second option saying he’d like to live another Thanksgiving but that he didn’t want to linger and be a burden to Betty and their family. (That’s Lou, trying to be considerate even in his dying!)

Wanting to be an encouragement to both, Sue and I called weekly to check on Lou’s progress. Some days good; others not so good. Some days encouraging; others discouraging. Some days at home; others re-hospitalized. Some days hopeful; others not.

It was during one of those early calls that I boldly asked: “Lou, tell me honestly. Are you afraid to die?” (Our relationship was comfortable enough for me to ask that question!) “Frightened of dying?” he asked back then answering firmly: “Heck no! I know where I’m going. Why should I be afraid of Heaven? I’m ready to die; I just don’t necessarily wanna take the next bus.” Then he laughed that hearty, deep, manly laugh that all who knew him would easily recognize.

Because I knew Lou well, I wasn’t surprised at his reply to my question. He honestly believed what he told me. He wasn’t masking his fear by attempting to be strong and uttering empty macho-driven words. He was certain of his eternal life in Heaven that can only come through Jesus.

Fortunately, I was able to spend some one-on-one time with Lou in his hospital room just a week before he died and was able to thank him for his friendship and what he and Betty had meant to Sue and me over the years.

It was a sweet, memorable time with him as we reminisced and laughed about the fun and life challenges we had shared since we met in 1983 during a Sunday School class at First Baptist Church in Daytona Beach. Along with two other couples in that class we developed a close-knit support group which encouraged, prayed and assisted each other through temporary financial difficulties we all faced. They were the worst of times; yet they were the best of times.

Lou and Betty had shocked us all by announcing one day that they were giving up their house to move into a fifth wheel RV and travel the country full-time. Frankly, we thought they were nuts! Unknowingly, they tricked us with the many phone calls and post cards they’d send from all over the country telling us how much fun they were having and how adventurous their lifestyle had become and how much fun it would be if we would join them some day. Little did we know then that several years later, in 2002, Sue and I would follow in their footsteps and become “full-timers” ourselves.

During that final guy-time together while waiting for Betty and Sue to join us, Lou’s oncologist came into the hospital room to visit with Lou. When I started to leave so they could visit privately, Lou insisted that I stay.

“Captain Lou,” (he called him that because Lou retired from 30 years in the Merchant Marine with the rank of Captain) he said gently and with obvious compassion, “I wish I could give you a shot to make this leukemia go away. But, there is no such shot and I’ve done all I can do for you medically. The leukemia has spread throughout your body and your systems are beginning to shut down and you don’t have much longer.”

Calmly, with absolutely no sign of fear on his face and with voice strong and steady, Lou asked: “How long do I have?” The doctor answered: “That’s difficult to project. My guess is anywhere from several days to two or three weeks, but certainly not a month.”

I was amazed at Lou’s reaction. None of the physical signs one would expect appeared – no gasp, no frown, no tear, no trembling lips, and no shaky voice. It was obvious that Lou had prepared himself emotionally for this announcement that he knew would eventually come sooner or later.

His response to the doctor’s news was to calmly ask what would happen to him physically. The doctor explained that hospice representatives would drop by that afternoon when Betty arrived to discuss ways they could help minimize the pain and keep Lou comfortable “until you pass.” (While I was there the doctor never used the term “die,” apparently trying to ease his patient’s anxiety.)

The conversation was interrupted by an attendant entering the room to check on Lou’s monitors. Politely, The doctor excused himself telling Lou that he would return when Betty arrived to reiterate his prognosis and answer any further questions they might have.

To prevent Lou from seeing the tears that had suddenly begun streaming down my cheeks, I followed the doctor out of the room and headed for a walk down the hall to gather my emotions. Shortly, Betty and Sue arrived and asked me how Lou was doing. Not wanting to blind-side Betty with all the details, I explained briefly what the doctor had said and that he was waiting to talk with both of them.

Reluctantly entering the room again at Betty’s insistence, Sue and I had the privilege, honor and blessing of “just being there” as the doctor once again explained the situation. Betty, too, was rock solid in her own strong faith as they both asked questions.

As he stood up from Lou’s bedside preparing to leave, the doctor asked Lou if he had any more questions. Lou said: “Yessir, I have one more. Where do you go to church?”

Somewhat reluctantly, the doctor explained that he wasn’t into organized religion even though he had grown up “as a Catholic” and had attended a Jesuit school. “I’ve probably used my doctoring as an excuse not to go to church,” he admitted.

Then, Lou asked another question. “If you were to die today and St. Peter asked you why he should let you into Heaven, what would you say?” Lou asked.

The doctor gave a typical answer. “Well, I’d tell him I’ve lived a good life and have been a pretty good person by trying to help sick people get well,” he said.

Then Betty chimed in: “Well, with all your Jesuit training you probably know that just being good isn’t enough. It takes more than that. It takes a personal relationship with Jesus to get his free gift of life eternal.”

Lou interrupted by saying that we can know for certain that we have eternal life and asked the doctor if he wanted to know how he could be sure.

Somewhat embarrassed, the doctor began to nervously back-pedal toward the door, commenting that he had patients to see and duties to perform. So, Betty and Lou changed the subject by thanking him for all he had done to help Lou. That done, the doctor left the room.

Sue and I immediately recognized that both Lou and Betty were using the Evangelism Explosion witnessing program all four of us had learned many years earlier.

Then, it hit us! Whoa!! On his deathbed literally less than 30 minutes since he was told he had less than a month to live, Lou was more concerned about the doctor’s salvation than he was about his own death! Amazing!

That, my friends, is what “living and walking in faith” means!

(END)

Hurricane Katrina Aftermath-3

By Chuck Cooper
(September 20, 2005)

Part Three – Observations/Comments


Author’s Note: You are about to read some random personal observations and comments about the evacuation of the thousands of evacuees from New Orleans’ Super Dome to Houston’s Astro Dome. My purpose here is simple: to provide an eyewitness account and commentary - nothing more, nothing less. Keep in mind that I was but one of the thousands of rescue workers and volunteers that assisted. Most have their unique experiences and opinions to share, likely even more dramatic than mine.

My comments here are based on what I saw and heard and thought at the time. Based upon recent reports, I’ve added a few afterthoughts as well. By training and experience I’ve learned it is prudent to withhold binding judgments until all the facts are considered. I empathize with all government officials charged with the responsibility for managing the evacuation. This event is unprecedented. However, there are many reasons to question decisions made and not made by our leaders. I don’t accuse any of them of malice, but ineptness in planning and implementing what plans there were is very obvious.

No Power, No Cell Phones, No Radio

As our caravan of six busses headed toward La Place, LA where we were to stage and get FEMA-supplied diesel fuel for our busses I constantly searched for radio news of Katrina’s aftermath.

Local radio stations in both Meridian and Jackson, MS provided invaluable information to evacuees who somehow managed to get there on where to get gasoline, food, water and shelter. Too, they barraged listeners with drop off locations for supplies to be trucked to New Orleans and the Gulf Coast and occasional national news of the disaster.

But, south of Jackson along I-55 it became apparent that Katrina’s wind had disabled all power meaning no cell phones and no radio. It seemed very strange and surreal to be in an information vacuum for the next 150 miles.

All the way south from Jackson, there was much more traffic than I had anticipated. I saw numerous trucks, church vans, electrical and telephone service trucks and other busses heading toward New Orleans. All displayed the FEMA placards required for entry through the various checkpoints into the area. It was then that I began to understand what a massive undertaking this would be.

It would be more than 12 hours later en route from New Orleans to Houston that we finally found uninterrupted cell phone service and lights. My passengers were sleeping so I resisted the urge to check out local radio and got no more news until my evacuees were safely in Houston.

FEMA & Red Cross Vehicles Galore!

At the La Place, LA re-fueling station being operated by the Army National Guard at a commandeered Texaco truck stop, I was impressed by the Guard’s organization and efficiency. They did an outstanding job getting the hundreds of vehicles re-fueled and the 30-bus convoys staged, ready for entry into New Orleans.

Quite obvious were at least 100 other vehicles, mostly 18-wheelers, parked around the parking lot apparently waiting instructions on where to deliver their goods and supplies. All displayed either FEMA or Red Cross placards, but I didn’t see a single one of them head toward New Orleans during the 45 minutes or so I was there. All stayed put for some reason.

I learned later that evacuation officials refused to let the Red Cross enter the city because the officials believed that letting food and water and other supplies into town would encourage residents to stay put rather than evacuating as mandated. If true that makes sense to me now, but I was infuriated when I first heard needed supplies were prohibited from entering the city.

I have no idea if or when the FEMA-marked trucks left. I have no idea what they were carrying. All I know is the parking lot at the truck stop was full of them. That was the Thursday evening following Katrina’s landfall.

Where Are The Local Busses?

While staged about 10 miles from the Super Dome waiting for armed military escort to lead us in, another driver in my group asked if I had noticed any city transit busses or school busses headed out of town. Until he asked, it hadn’t dawned on me. We agreed that the two caravans of yellow school busses we saw heading west were all from Baton Rouge! None we saw during the entire trip were from New Orleans or surrounding parishes. Unbelievable!

After the fact, we all learned that for some preposterous reason, New Orleans busses, although part of the pre-disaster evacuation plan, were not ordered to help with the evacuation. Why? There they sat flooded and unusable and probably will need to be replaced or incur extensive repairs at taxpayer expense.

Let’s look at the timeline. Katrina hit early on Monday morning nearly 24 hours after New Orleans officials issued a citywide evacuation order. Residents were told Sunday afternoon to evacuate. If they could not afford to leave, they were told to head to the so-called safety of the Super Dome. All but eight of the 57 adult evacuees I encountered on my bus went to the Super Dome Sunday afternoon or evening. They obeyed city officials.

All of us (except residents of the Gulf Coast and their families and friends) breathed a collective sigh of relief that Katrina had veered east and spared a direct hit for New Orleans. Although the Super Dome suffered wind damage, no one inside was killed because of wind or flying debris.

It wasn’t until Tuesday afternoon apparently that the 17th Street levee was breached and the city began to flood. Evacuation officials had some 24 hours to roll out the local busses before the flooding began making evacuation urgent. So, either the officials had some compelling reason to let the local busses sit or they just plain didn’t anticipate they would be needed.

If local officials felt Katrina’s threat was serious enough on Sunday to order a city-wide evacuation and if they believed they should tell those who couldn’t afford to leave to seek sanctuary at the Super Dome, then why in the world did they let all those busses sit still instead of evacuating those who obeyed by going to the Super Dome?

I understand the Mayor excused the inaction by saying there weren’t enough drivers! What a lame excuse! It’s difficult for me to understand how an existing evacuation plan could call for the use of local transit and school busses without considering and planning on who the heck would drive them. There is no telling how many city residents were lost, injured or starved because the available busses weren’t used.

Remember this: it was FEMA (not local or state agencies) that ordered the busses from all over the country used for the eventual evacuation of the Super Dome. Their order came on Wednesday when the Louisiana Governor, required by law to ask for assistance from FEMA, finally did so. Why did Governor Blanco wait so long to request federal assistance? Only she knows, but one could easily speculate that she either didn’t know the law or wanted to oversee the disaster recovery in her state by herself to enhance her political status. Either way, she inflicted pain and suffering on her fellow citizens. That’s inexcusable in my opinion. President Bush had declared the region eligible for disaster assistance before Katrina hit.

Why, too, did city officials reportedly reject an offer by Amtrak to bring in at least one train to assist with the evacuation on Sunday?

Perhaps New Orleans’ evacuation plan didn’t take into consideration where to take or send the evacuees. If so, the evacuation plan was not a plan: it was a goal without necessary details.

If the impending investigation is thorough and honest, perhaps we will someday know the answers to these questions of apparent ineptness on the part of local, state, and federal officials and figure out a method to avoid the same mistakes in the future. Unfortunately, I don’t believe we will get a thorough, honest investigation given the political climate of today where it’s “political party affiliation” ahead of what’s best for the citizenry. I’m cynical.

The Looters And The Criminal Element

We really shouldn’t be shocked by the looting of New Orleans we saw in the immediate aftermath of Katrina. We’ve seen it all before and unfortunately we’ll see it again. Just because we know it to be inevitable doesn’t make it right.

I’ll confess that if faced with a life-saving need for food and water, I wouldn’t hesitate to break into a grocery store, restaurant or even a private home to keep my family alive. And, I believe most reading this would do the same. Hopefully, most of us would keep an account of what we had taken and reimburse the rightful owner later when things returned to normal.

However, there is a huge difference between stealing groceries and/or clothing needed for survival and the looting of businesses and homes just for the sake of stealing electronic devices for sale or for future use. What in the world were those hoodlums we saw on television going to do with all those flat-screen TV’s?

Even now that some evacuated New Orleans residents have been allowed to return, the FBI and 82nd Airborne have been forced to bring in SWAT teams to protect temporarily abandoned homes and businesses. Why would down and out residents rip off other down and out residents during such a tragic ordeal? Car theft in New Orleans reportedly has been rampant. And homes/buildings are still being torched just for the “fun” of it.

Why should those desperately trying to rebuild the city’s infrastructure have to concern themselves with possible attack and plundering by the very people they are trying to help? Why in the world would rescuers ever dream they would be shot at and put in harm’s way by the very people they were trying to rescue?

And, why would those desperately waiting rescue prowl the area seeking women and young girls to rape? What’s been even more puzzling is why anyone would condone and make lame excuses for such activity? There may be reasons offered, but there are no acceptable excuses! Period.

Oh, yes, you can count on hand wringing, bleeding-heart would-be sociologists pontificating on what causes that sort of behavior. The perpetrators will be portrayed as “victims” of this or that and excused because society “caused” them to misbehave. Bullpucky!

The real “victims” are those regardless of race or class whose homes and businesses they’ve worked hard to purchase were ravaged and destroyed by the hoodlums and punks in New Orleans who have nothing but selfish concern and motives. The real “victims” are those innocent mothers, daughters and sisters who were wantonly and openly raped by undisciplined savages in front of cheering crowds of other undisciplined savages and innocent bystanders who were helpless to intervene.

Where The Heck Were Jesse Jackson And Other Black “Leaders”?

Surely, I missed it along the way. Please tell me that I’m wrong when I say that I didn’t see a single so-called leader or self-appointed spokesman for the black community in this country on national television decrying the looting and decadent behavior that went on in Katrina’s aftermath.

I didn’t hear any outrage from the Jesse Jacksons or Al Sharptons of our country when it was direly needed to protect lives and property. I didn’t hear any national black leader plead for calm and insist that the violence in New Orleans stop. Why?

What I did hear was Jesse himself call the New Orleans Convention Center a “slave ship” during his brief visit there. And, I heard and saw numerous black (and white) spokespersons immediately point a finger of blame at the federal government in general and President Bush in particular for the dire straits of evacuees in New Orleans. Strange, isn’t it, that I didn’t hear (and still haven’t heard) just one black spokesperson point a finger of blame at New Orleans’ black mayor.

Mr. Jackson wasn’t the only black leader who was silent on the crime issue. Where was the NAACP? Where was CORE? Where was any national black organization? In fairness, I did hear one black pastor on Atlanta television lash out at attempts to make the New Orleans disaster a racial matter.

Here is why I believe it was (and still is!) extremely important for black leaders to speak out against the violence. It was mostly black on black crime!

That’s’ correct. It is a fact that some 80% of the residents in downtown New Orleans are black. It is also a fact that most of the evacuees who showed up at the Super Dome and the Convention Center are black. It is a fact that most of the hoodlum punks causing trouble in both locations were black.

If the national black leaders are sincerely concerned about “the poor blacks” in this country, then why in the world weren’t they concerned enough to speak out strongly about “the poor blacks” in New Orleans who were being randomly and maliciously attacked by other “poor blacks” in New Orleans?

Mr. Jackson, where were you (and other national black “leaders”) when your countrymen needed you? Your silence on this issue was deafening!

Katrina: An Act of God?

It is a long-held tradition and practice in this country to refer to all natural disasters as “an act of God.” Check out your insurance policies. Many have exclusions for “an act of God” written into the policy meaning the insurance company won’t pay for losses that are considered “acts of God.” The implication is that none of us have control over those acts and can, therefore, not be held accountable for them.

Truly, none of us had control over Hurricane Katrina. She was, as tradition and practice dictates, an “act of God.”

Here’s an interesting “coincidence,” perhaps even one of “God’s coincidences.” A friend told me before Katrina struck New Orleans and the Gulf Coast that the meaning of her name is to cleanse or to purify. Curious, I looked it up on the Internet. Sure enough, the root word means “cleanliness” or “purification.”

Could it be that our creator God caused (or allowed) Katrina to purify or cleanse the New Orleans area of its well-known decadence? Could it be that God judged New Orleans to be a sinful city similar to Biblical Sodom and Gomorrah and devastated major portions of it as a warning to clean up its act? Is it possible that God will allow a disaster similar to the Great Flood of Noah’s time that will destroy the New Orleans area because it refused “to turn from its wicked ways”? Is it possible that God will allow Tropical Storm Rita, now churning away off the tip of Florida, to strengthen into Hurricane Rita and guide the storm towards New Orleans thereby either destroying the city while it is so vulnerable or giving it another strong warning?

Obviously, we mere humans can’t unequivocally answer any of these questions I ask. We just don’t know. But all of us who know the Holy Scriptures should be alarmed with the prophecies which call for “natural disasters and unexplained phenomenon” during the Last Days of Earth as we know it. Could it be?

Yo, Geraldo! Enough Already!

All of us have been exposed to Geraldo Rivera’s style of reporting during his long television career. Rather than strictly report, Geraldo has an inclination to inject himself into the story. Often, he becomes the subject. Some like it, some don’t, and many just don’t care.

On Friday night, after Katrina and while thousands were still waiting to be evacuated from the deplorable conditions at the New Orleans Convention Center, Geraldo appeared live on Fox News Channel. He gave a highly impassioned report that I considered misleading, inciteful and totally unprofessional.

I admire and sympathize with his passion for the starving and thirsty evacuees in waiting. Their conditions were horrible. No one should have to endure what they endured. Yet, in my opinion, Geraldo went far “over the top” when he began screaming into the camera: “Get some food in here for these starving folks. They haven’t had food in days.” Crying, he grabbed an infant from its mother’s arms, kissed it on the head and shouted that no baby should go without food like the child he held did. Geraldo was correct in his comments and demands and his presentation was “dramatic” to say the least. It was a very heart-wrenching performance.

It was what he didn’t say rather than his histrionics that bothered me. Early in the report Geraldo said that he had just arrived in the area and had headed for the Convention Center to file his live report.

What he didn’t report was that because of the violence at the Convention Center and the fact that they were vastly out-manned and out-gunned, the National Guard and New Orleans police pulled out of the area at 2:30 that very afternoon! They simply could not protect the persons bringing food and water into the area without reinforcements.

Neither did Geraldo report that a 4,000-man Infantry Division of the U.S. Army was en route to restore order, to provide food and water and to resume the rescue. (Arriving the next morning, the Infantry Division took control of the area, began distributing food and water to the evacuees and quickly resumed evacuation. By nightfall, the Convention Center had been cleared.)

Yo, Geraldo! Enough already! A wide-eyed, inexperienced recent journalism graduate could have just as well “performed” your report. Because of your experience, we expect more of you than what you gave us.

(END)

Hurricane Katrina Aftermath-2

Part Two - New Orleans Evacuation – Their Stories
By Chuck Cooper
(September 7, 2005)

“Total Anarchy” At The Convention Center

While staged at the Louisiana Army National Guard command center awaiting our escort to the Super Dome, I had the opportunity to visit with two of the armed soldiers standing guard. What they told me about their experiences at the New Orleans Convention Center, from which they were withdrawn just hours earlier, was heart breaking.

They had spent two long nights attempting to control the ever-growing throngs of refugees who congregated there awaiting evacuation. They described the situation as “total anarchy” with the criminal element becoming bolder and bolder.

“We were so out-numbered we knew we had lost control and were waiting for reinforcements. We went in locked and loaded with standing orders to protect each other and to open fire if we were attacked,” they told me, “but we knew that if we fired we were dead men.” They explained that many of the “young punks” were packing firearms.

“What we saw happening there is unbelievable,” one said. “We saw things that I never dreamed would be possible and we were so out-numbered we couldn’t do anything about it.”

They told of a white woman who came out of the Convention Center in broad daylight who was immediately jumped by a gang of “black punks”, thrown to the ground and repeatedly raped while a crowd gathered and cheered. “It was a terrible thing to see,” one said, “and we couldn’t do anything to help her for fear of being shot.”

They said no woman there was safe and saw many submit to sex in order to save their lives. Even young girls, they said, were beaten and repeatedly raped.

They explained that when a disturbance broke out in one location, they would rush there to help control the situation, but another disturbance would break out in the area they had just left.

“Were we frightened?” one asked. “Whadda you think? I didn’t think I would get out of there alive.”

One told me he saw a church van arrive loaded with food and water. When the female driver got out to open the doors, she was overwhelmed, beaten and thrown to the ground. A riot ensued as desperate refugees pushed and shoved to get to the supplies. Gunfire from “the punks” dispersed the crowd and the punks emptied the van and distributed the supplies among themselves. When empty, the van was rolled onto its side. He doesn’t know what happened to the driver.

Shortly thereafter another similar van appeared. The male driver was dragged from the van as two of “the punks” jumped in and drove off with a horde of other young men following it.

The soldiers said they had no food, but did have bottled water.

Finally, after ANG commanders realized they had lost complete control and were about to be overwhelmed, the order was given to withdraw. The left at 2:30 p.m. on Thursday and set up headquarters where we were staged. One of the young soldiers said a 4,000-man infantry division was on its way and should arrive that evening. Through clenched teeth he grimaced: “When they get here, we will take back control. It might get ugly, but we are going back in and kick butt.”

Postscript: I heard the next day on a Houston radio station that the infantry force had in fact taken control and the refugees at the Convention Center were being evacuated.


“A Distraught Plea For Help”

While talking with the soldiers we were interrupted by a white man in a dilapidated pickup. He pulled alongside and said he desperately needed to talk with someone in charge.

He was a mess. A man of about 50, it became obvious as he stepped from his truck that he was sleep-deprived, had not changed clothes in a while, was unshaven and needed a shower. He was shaking uncontrollably as we approached him and apologized for his appearance.

“I need four of these busses right now and I’m not leaving until they come with me,” he demanded. “I’m tired of not getting any help. Nobody cares. Nobody will listen to me,” he said in an obvious British accent. One of the soldiers said: “I care, sir, what can I do to help you”

As calmly as he could, the man explained that he owned a small nursing home in the French Quarter and that he had arranged and paid in advance for four busses to come to his facility the previous Sunday afternoon to evacuate his 16 patients (aged 80 to 105) to a nursing home in Baton Rouge.

“The driver called me Sunday afternoon and told me they had been commandeered by the Army and couldn’t come to my aid,” he explained, “so I called and arranged for four more busses. They, too were taken over by the Army when they got here Sunday night.”

Here it is Thursday night and I’ve still gotten no help. I’ve walked all over New Orleans trying to get someone to help me. The police don’t care, the Army doesn’t care. Four of my patients have already died and I’ve got one more who will go tonight. Why can’t I get any help? This is America and no one will help. No one will even give me body bags for the dead ones. I’ve got one woman dead in her wheel chair with a blanket draped over her. Will you please, please help me?” he cried out desperately. One soldier tried unsuccessfully to calm him down, telling him he would find an officer.

Screaming, the man turned to me. Will you help me. All I need is four of these busses that are just sitting here not being used. Please come with me. I’ll give you anything you want if you will just help save my patients.”

Thankfully, the other soldier interrupted before I could answer. “Sir,” he said calmly, “these busses are assigned to FEMA and are headed to the SuperDome.” “But why can’t they help me?” the man interrupted. Can’t you see I’m desperate to save my patients?”

About that time an out-of-uniform ANG officer arrived, introduced himself and both moved out of earshot of us to talk privately.

It was then that I saw our escort had arrived and I got the signal to move out. As I pulled away I saw the officer and desperate man in my rear view mirrors. They were talking animatedly!

(That man and his patients were constantly in my prayers the rest of my trip. I’ve never seen someone so distraught and so in need of help. Just recalling the incident for you has brought tears to my eyes once again.)

I have no idea when or if the situation was resolved. However, when I related this story to my wife Sue after I arrived home, she told me she heard a television report that rescuers found 16 dead patients in a nursing home in downtown New Orleans. How pitiful!


“Chaos At The SuperDome”

Author’s Note: As I mentioned in Part 1, most of the evacuees I picked up wanted to talk about their ordeals once they realized they were safe, had gotten a nap and had bonded with me. They talked with me privately, but more often in groups. I was an attentive listener and they willingly responded to my numerous questions. Apparently, talking helped them. The following is a summary of their comments and descriptions of their stay at the SuperDome. Most on my bus had been in the SuperDome four and a half days.

Of the 65 evacuees (including 8 infants) I had on my bus, fully two-thirds of them had done precisely what they had been told. They went to the SuperDome Sunday afternoon arriving by bus, bicycle and on foot. Most took very few possessions with them believing they would weather the storm safely and return home after Katrina had blown thru. How wrong they were.

Of the remaining one-third on my bus, seven had stayed in the Convention Center Monday night after the storm, but left early Tuesday morning because conditions there were so bad. Two had been delivered to the SuperDome in boats; a family of five walked and waded thru suddenly rising floodwaters. The remainder on my bus had been rescued from rooftops and delivered safely on Wednesday.

The scene at the SuperDome Sunday night was rather calm. Many of those gathered had been thru this drill during Hurricane Ivan. They still had electricity and water and staked out their territories on the SuperDome floor. Nearly all had brought food and water with them and a change of clothes.

By midnight Sunday, the floor was nearly full and recent arrivals were heading for the seats and rooms upstairs. By this time, the toilets were overflowing and filthy, and although most were concerned about the impending Katrina, the situation was calm.

Sometime during the night, the rain began falling, ever increasing in intensity. Early Monday morning the roof of the SuperDome began leaking; by mid-morning the floor was flooded and the refugees moved to the safety of the stands. More and more refugees arrived and conditions deteriorated quickly.

“The wind was frightening,” one lady told me. “I could hear things banging into the building and people screaming,” she said. “Then the power went out and it was total darkness and we began to get hot.” She said once the wind died down she could hear the rain pounding on the roof and water raining down on the floor. By the time the rain stopped, she estimated there was “about 2 feet” of water covering the floor.

Now the floor of the SuperDome was becoming an open latrine. With bathrooms flooded, the evacuees had no option but to relieve themselves on the flooded floor of their shelter. “I can’t tell you how bad the odor was,” one young man told me, “and people were vomiting everywhere.”

Desperate, hungry, frightened, sweating profusely and angry, tempers began to flare. Nerves were raw and violence began to erupt. Fights and even shootings were becoming common. “We had no medical attention, we had no information, we had no food or water, we had nothing,” one of my passengers explained, “and suddenly it was every man for himself. It was a war zone,” she said. “People began kicking down doors at the offices upstairs, I saw youngsters break into an office and steal liquor and beer. Drugs were everywhere. Even the trophy cases were ransacked,” she continued.

An elderly male passenger described the SuperDome as a “mad house” with more and more people fighting to enter the SuperDome to avoid the flooding which had started.

He wondered why there wasn’t more security. “I heard fights everywhere and women screaming for help as they were raped in the pitch blackness,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “And the noise. It was so loud none of us could even rest, much less sleep. I knew I was gonna die if help didn’t come soon.”

Eventually, help did come. The first busses began arriving late Wednesday afternoon but people were fighting to get on them. Rumors that they were going to the AstroDome began circulating. Finally, this man said, the Army showed up and things calmed a bit. He said the soldiers were able to loosely control the hordes of people trying to load the busses. They apparently tried to evacuate the women, youngsters and those needing medical attention first, but, unwittingly, that procedure separated families. As more and more busses arrived on Thursday, things calmed down.

When I arrived late Thursday night, the Army had organized the waiting evacuees. The loading of my bus was very orderly, perhaps, as one passenger believed, because everyone was so tired and worn down. What little energy they had left was being used to survive.

Postscript: According to news reports, officials found nine dead bodies in the SuperDome after all had been evacuated.


“Mr. Chuck, Please Help Me Find My Baby”

Accompanied by two children of about 5 or 6, a young mother approached me as soon as she exited my bus at the Texas Welcome Center.

“Does your cell phone work here?” she politely asked, “I need to find my baby. Mr. Chuck, please help me find my baby.” She explained that she had left her six-month old daughter in the care of her 19-year old nephew and his young brother. They had been loaded onto a bus early Thursday afternoon and she wasn’t sure where they were.

She asked me to dial his cell phone number. All circuits were busy. We tried again several minutes later. Same response. A third try with the same response. I tried to calm her obvious panic by telling her that all the busses I knew of were headed to the AstroDome and that she would likely find her relatives there. It really didn’t help much.

As soon as we got to the AstroDome in Houston, she hustled over to me and I tried again, but no answer. Then, she said she had a sister who lived in Biloxi and asked me to try to call there. I told her there was likely no cell phone service there, but I would try. No response.

With tears in her eyes, she said: “Thank you, Mr. Chuck,” gave me a quick hug, grabbed her two youngsters by the hand and hustled off toward the AstroDome entrance saying as she went: “I won’t be back here, Mr. Chuck, I’ve gotta go find my baby.”

I didn’t see her again.


“Only One Was Rescued From The Roof”

He appeared to be in his late 50’s when he approached me in the AstroDome parking lot. “Chuck, do you know how long we are going to be here?” I told him it would be about 8 or so hours before they would be processed into the SuperDome. “No,” he replied, “I mean how long are we going to be in Houston?” He explained that he had a cousin in Baton Rouge and he wanted to try to find her. “She’ll put me up until I can get back on my feet,” he said.

I told him I had no idea how long they would be in Houston, but at least he was safe and would have plenty to eat and drink. “I sure hope this place isn’t like the SuperDome,” he said, “that place was a hell-hole. People shouldn’t be treated like that.”

When I asked if he had other family, he teared up. “Not any more, “ he said, “I lost them in the flood.” Like an unthinking idiot, I asked him: “Which flood.?” Giving me a quizzical glare, he replied: “Wednesday, they fell off the roof into the water and drowned,” he explained, obviously fighting to control his words.

Speaking quietly and under control, but with tears flowing from his eyes, he told me the terrible story. His family decided to ride out Hurricane Katrina at home ignoring the Sunday warning to evacuate. “We had a choice to spend the $25 we had on food and stay there or on gas to try to get out of town,” he said, “we decided on the food.” They were able to safely ride out the storm with little wind damage to their house.

But, on Tuesday afternoon when the levees breached, his neighborhood was suddenly inundated with water flooding his car and making evacuation impossible. His wife and 14-year-old daughter helped move most of their belongings to the second floor. By Wednesday morning the flood was up to the second floor windows, so he chopped a hole in the ceiling and then in the roof.

His wife pulled herself out first, then helped the daughter onto the roof. As he pulled himself through the hole, he heard a scream. His wife had apparently slipped on the roof, grabbed for the daughter and both went crashing into the water. They tried to grab a gutter, but the current swept them away. He shouted for them to grab a tree or another house. Slowly they drifted away, crying for help.

Some while later (he couldn’t remember how long), a helicopter appeared and rescued him from the roof. Inside the chopper were friends of his from the next block who told him his wife and daughter had drowned. They were caught up in a tree across the street from his friend’s house.

The chopper took them to the SuperDome late Wednesday afternoon. They got separated sometime during the night and he had no idea where they were, but hoped to find them at the AstroDome.

I was at a loss for meaningful words of comfort for him. All I did was give him a hug and say “I’m so sorry.” With conviction and unimaginable strength, he said: “I’ll be okay. I’m a strong man. I’ll make a new life for myself, but I’ll tell you one thing, it won’t be in New Orleans. I’ll never go back.”

That said, he changed the subject. “I believe it will be very safe here for a while what with all the police around. Besides, we are all hurting too much to cause any trouble,” he said. Then he walked away looking for a cup of hot coffee. He was still in shock and there wasn’t anything I could do for him other than to pray.


“My Double-Chuck Friend”

“Hey, Chuck,” I heard someone shout behind me. Turning around in the AstroDome parking lot I saw three teen-aged young men from my bus approaching. The tall lanky one said: “That’s what they call me. Chuck, that’s my name.”

“Great,” I replied, “we can be ‘Double Chuck.’” They all laughed profusely while elbowing their approval of my stupid joke.

The lanky Chuck, eyes and gold teeth sparkling in the early morning sun, asked: “Wanna hear something funny?” When I nodded approval he continued, “I was supposed to move here to Houston today!” What irony!

He told me his family had moved most of their household goods to his uncle’s home in Houston the previous weekend, but because they couldn’t move into their newly rented apartment until the first of the month, they went back to New Orleans, planning to finish the move this weekend.

“So,” I joked, “are you gonna thank me for the free ride to your new city?” They all laughed again and he said: “Sure am, sir” as he offered a handshake.

When I asked him what he was planning to do he said he was going to try to locate his parents and sister, from whom he had been separated. Then, once he received his FEMA check he was going to find a job and go to work. “We ain’t going back to New Orleans,” he said.

One of his friends then asked him: “Are you gonna tell Chuck what happened to you at the SuperDome?” He began his story by saying how “crazy” things were there. “I don’t understand why people were doing all those stupid things they did,” he offered, “we were all in the same situation, but some of those hoodlums took advantage and caused lots of trouble raping and robbing and fighting with folks.”

Then he asked if I had heard about the man who committed suicide inside the Dome by jumping off the second floor balcony. “Yes,” I replied, “I heard he had been playing a game on the second floor and then, without a word, went to the balcony and shouted ‘lookout below’ and jumped to his death.”

“That’s right,” Chuck acknowledged. “I was taking a nap on the floor below when I heard screams. I rolled over and heard a loud thump. He landed about six feet from me on the concrete. There was blood and screaming everywhere.”

“What did you do?’, I asked. “Man, it scared me so much because he could have fallen on me and killed me, too.! That just wouldn’t do,” he said. They all laughed again.

Then they spotted some friends getting off another bus and took off. As they left, Chuck shouted: “Thanks, Double Chuck, see you later!” and they were gone.

(END)

Hurricane Katrina Aftermath-1

Part One - New Orleans Evacuation - Chronology

By Chuck Cooper
(September 5, 2005)

Author’s Note: As a part-time motor coach driver for His Majesty Coaches in Kennesaw, GA, I was among six drivers from our firm who volunteered to participate in the evacuation of New Orleans following the devastation and flooding of the city caused by Hurricane Katrina on August 29, 2005.

This three-part report is nothing more or nothing less than one man’s account of his activities - the re-telling of the horrendous stories related to me by the evacuees I drove from the disgusting conditions in the SuperDome in New Orleans to the safe, secure confines of the AstroDome in Houston, TX, including some personal observations about the evacuation. It was an odyssey I shall never, ever forget.

This account is very detailed (the former reporter in me dictates it!) because I want it to be an accurate historical account for my family and friends. This disaster is destined to take its place among the most-remembered events in our generation’s national history.



Wednesday, August 31, 1:00 p.m.

As I drove out the gate from our terminal to pickup the visiting US National Junior Baseball Team for an Atlanta Braves baseball game, His Majesty Coaches, Inc. owner Tom Brown stopped me and said he had just received a call from FEMA in New Orleans asking for assistance in the evacuation. Tom asked if I’d like to volunteer to make the trip, adding that our team of six would depart about 6 a.m. the next morning. Without hesitation, I told Tom to “count me in; I want to go.” He advised we could be gone as long as a week or so and to pack accordingly, including sleeping bag and plenty of food and water for our personal use.

Wednesday, August 31, 11:30 p.m.

Having returned home and loaded the car with the required snack foods, water and personal items, I finally drifted off to sleep wondering what we had in store for us and praying that we would all be safe and thanking the Lord for the opportunity to serve our fellow humans in dire need. Before going to bed, I e-mailed friends asking for their prayer support. We were all aware of the reports of anarchy and shootings in the affected area.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 6:00 a.m.

Leaving the terminal in a six-bus caravan, we headed just west of Atlanta to stop at Trinity Community Church (Tom’s church) to pick up supplies the church was donating to the relief effort. What we saw was incredible. Lined up was a wall of marked and taped boxes at least 60 feet long and three boxes high – all donations from church members who had responded to a request in the previous evening’s worship service. Church volunteers worked until 2:00 a.m. to prepare them for us and we filled the luggage bays of five of the buses.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 7:00 a.m.

Following a group prayer, we departed for La Place, LA where FEMA instructed us to report for fuel, a hot meal and further instructions, including where to drop the supplies we were carrying. FEMA advised they had waived all federal and state driving restrictions meaning we were not required to keep official logs of our trip. We taped FEMA signs in the windows of our coaches to allow us entry into the restricted areas. Because the damaged roads east of New Orleans were closed, we were forced to take I-20 from Atlanta to Jackson, MS where we headed south to I-10. La Place is at the intersection of I-10 and I-55 some 25 miles northwest of New Orleans.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 11:00 a.m.

A cell phone call from Ron Ezell, former fellow driver at Christian Tours in Newton, NC advised me that a team of ten had left their terminal the previous night and were several hours ahead of us. He said they were having difficulty finding fuel because of the power outage south of Jackson. I advised Tom (driving the lead bus) by two-way radio and we stopped outside Tuscaloosa, AL for fuel and a bite to eat.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 5:00 p.m.

Not far south of Jackson on I-55, I lost cell phone service and began to notice slight wind damage to the trees. I was finally able to find a radio station in Jackson and listened to all the horrible reports of conditions in New Orleans and the thousands of hungry, frightened, thirsty, miserable evacuees waiting to be bussed to safety. The continuing violence in the city concerned me greatly and I wondered if I had spoken to my wife, Sue, for the last time. My continual prayer was for our safety, for the evacuees we were about to encounter, for the troops and lawmen trying to restore order and giving thanks that I was part of the hundreds of volunteer bus drivers heading to help

(I do NOT apologize for my prayer references: I am a committed Christian and believe strongly in the power of prayer. Praying is a part of who I am! And, I honestly believed and still believe that I was on a mission for the Lord called by Him to serve in this way.)

By this time, we had been on the road for nearly 11 hours, with only the fuel stop and a couple of quick pit stops along the highway to exercise our legs and let our eyes rest. Drowsiness was a constant companion so I prayed for the alertness to safely complete our mission. I looked forward to a brief respite from the miles that seemed to click away so slowly though we were driving at speeds above 70 mph.

Just south of the intersection with I-12, we encountered a roadblock, but we were waved through without any difficulty and with an encouraging wave from the Louisiana State Troopers manning the station.

Traffic was very thin now because westbound non-essential traffic had been diverted onto I-12. I was so drowsy all I could think of was getting to La Place. About 10 miles north of La Place, we stopped along the roadside so Tom could call FEMA for instructions on where to drop our supplies. To our dismay, FEMA informed Tom that they could not accept the donations and to try to find some charitable group who would accept them. We were terribly frustrated and angry at the FEMA response

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 6:30 p.m.

What a wonderful sight! The Army had commandeered a Texaco truck stop at La Place where we could re-fuel and get some exercise, some promised “real” food and even some rest before heading on into New Orleans.

The Army was very well organized and I counted 40 buses in some stage of service and lined up on the outbound highway. There was NO food and it took about 40 minutes to get re-fueled. Meanwhile, the soldiers fueling my bus from one of the many Army tankers on site advised me to get in line on the highway because we would soon be escorted into New Orleans.
No rest for the weary!

As we departed behind state trooper escort, Tom (the lead bus of about 30 in the convoy) advised us by radio that we would be escorted to a place about 10 miles from downtown New Orleans where we would pick up evacuees who had been brought there by boat and chopper and drive them the 341 miles to the AstroDome.

Once off I-310 onto U.S. 90, the wind damage became very apparent, although I didn’t see any flooding along the way. Signs and downed trees were everywhere. Buildings were de-roofed, windows blown out and damage to most of the shops and restaurants was obvious. Debris was everywhere. Locals who had apparently not evacuated wandered around and along the highway. Many had plastic bags full of who knows what. It appeared they were trying to find shelter before dark. There was a fairly strong police presence watching over things.

I must confess my apprehension was getting more intense. I wasn’t afraid of dying, just concerned about our safety and whether or not we would be victims of the increasing violence. But this time, I could not find a single radio station on the air.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 7:30 p.m.

The first hint of confusion (there would be many to come!) was when our escort missed a turn so we did a U-turn and returned several miles back to our assigned pickup spot. Seeing the hundreds of military vehicles, the armed soldiers and utter calm as we staged in the area was a tremendous relief to me. We soon learned this was the Louisiana Army National Guard command post for the area.

Strangely, there were no evacuees to be seen!

The only civilians we saw were locals in cars and pickups coming to pick up food and water. The National Guard was loading it into cars in a very orderly manner.

As we staged along the road, our escort drove off without a word, leaving us unattended and wondering what was going on. We were totally confused about why we had stopped there. An armed soldier standing guard duty told me we would wait there until someone in authority would advise us where to go.

He also told me his unit had been evacuated from the turmoil around the Convention Center at 2:30 that afternoon because they were so outnumbered by the violence perpetrators that it was unsafe for them. He said a division of some 4,000 infantry men was en route to quell the uprising and in his words: “We will take control of the Convention Center and get those folks out of there.” (I’ll relate his description of the anarchy at the Convention Center in Part 2. I’ll also relate the frustrated comments of an owner of a French Quarter nursing home who was there seeking help in evacuating his patients.)

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 9:00 p.m.

Finally, an ANG Lt. Col. told us that we would leave soon for the SuperDome where we would pick up evacuees destined for Houston’s AstroDome. We inquired about military escort and he assured us we would be protected.

We drove several miles under state trooper escort to the tollbooths approaching the bridge over to the SuperDome. ANG soldiers ordered us to stage at the side of the road and told us we would wait there for military escort to the SuperDome. By this time it was pitch dark. After an hour of waiting an ANG humvee loaded with armed soldiers led us across the bridge. The scene was surreal. The only lights we saw were flashing blue police lights and an occasional flashlight beam triggered by what seemed like hundreds of armed soldiers. Debris was everywhere. Tons of it (mostly appearing as trash) had obviously been bulldozed to clear the roadway around the SuperDome. I could see literally thousands of people lined along the roadway on my left, across the flooded street from the SuperDome. We splashed around several corners until we came to the loading area where there was a sea of waiting evacuees. The ANG was in control of the crowds and the loading process was a very orderly one.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 10:25 p.m.

We formed two lines in about 18 inches of floodwater at the instruction of the soldiers. As I came to a stop an armed soldier approached, asked how many seats I had (57) and said he’d be right back. Within two minutes he and others brought five cases of MREs (food packages) and two huge cases of bottled water. I placed an MRE and a bottle of water on each seat. When I asked the soldier about the people lining the streets on the left, he informed me they were latecomers waiting to get into the SuperDome. How pitiful!

As each evacuee climbed up the steps after wading thru the polluted water, I offered an encouraging word and asked them take the rear seats first. They were very orderly and cooperated fully. Most of them had only a plastic bag or a backpack with them, but many had nothing with them at all.

The expressions on their faces varied from a faint smile to a simple gaze. Some acknowledged my comments with a nod and a few uttered a faint “thank you.”

The odor was horrific and it continually gagged me to the point that I had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. I tried to disguise my gags with a cough or a clearing of my throat so I wouldn’t embarrass them. I had a mouthful of Life Savers, but they didn’t help much until I learned to breathe thru my mouth rather than thru my nose. I used that technique all the way to Houston.

All of them immediately began ripping open the bottled water and MREs, which thru some sort of chemical process heated the food when opened. Many asked for extra bottles of water. Several said it was the first food or water they had consumed in four days! When fully loaded, I had 57 adults with 8 infants on board. Their ages ranged from infants (the youngest appeared to be only weeks old) to elderly. Of the 65 people on board there were three whites (a mother and her two sons, aged 10 and 12); the rest were blacks.

Following instructions, I closed the door and moved forward about 100 yards to wait for the military escort to the tollbooth across the bridge. The entire bus broke out in spontaneous applause and cheers!

As we waited for the escort, I felt the need to say something encouraging. I introduced myself, acknowledged what they had been thru, told them I admired their courage and told them things would be getting better immediately. When I told them I was glad to see them, one lady shouted: “Thanks, Chuck, but you aren’t as glad as we are to see you.” I heard a muffled chorus of “amen’s” and “halleluiahs.”

When I asked if they had been told where we were going, most shook their heads “no” but one shouted “AstroDome” and I advised them that indeed was our destination, that it would be about a five-hour ride and that we would stop at the Texas Welcome Center so they could stretch their legs and perhaps get some more food and cold drinks and maybe some dry clothes.

Next, I asked if they had been told of the damage done by the Hurricane. Most had no idea, so I gave a brief overview of what I knew. You could have heard a pin drop as I briefly explained the flooding in New Orleans and the devastation to Biloxi, Pass Christian, Gulfport and Mobile. I also explained that we wouldn’t see lights until we approached Baton Rouge.

About then, the Humvee appeared and led our group of coaches out of the area to the final staging area at the tollbooth. It was 10:50 p.m. By then, I had been awake nearly 18 hours and had driven more than 700 miles. I was mentally exhausted and continued my prayer for alertness and safety. I heard no talking whatsoever as we drove toward the tollbooth. I literally cried with tears freely flowing down my cheeks as we wound our way thru total darkness, following only the reflectors on the Humvee in front of me.

Thursday, September 1, 2005, 11:05 p.m.

While waiting for the some 15 buses behind me to catch up at the tollbooth, I asked if they wanted to watch a movie on the drive to Houston. There was a resounding “NO” which surprised me. (I thought it would be a welcomed diversion from their frightened, wondering thoughts.) There were several shouts indicating they preferred to sleep. However, one young man asked if I would turn on the radio. His mother cried “No” and I told the young man she wanted to take a nap. She replied: “Praise The Lord.” And the bus was deathly quiet.

The lights in the distance indicated we were approaching Baton Rouge and murmuring was evident. The first laugh of any kind was in response to a shouted request that we stop in Baton Rouge for some chicken. The entire busload went quickly back to sleep or passengers were deep in thoughts and unanswered questions.

Friday, September 2, 2005, 4:30 a.m.

The Texas Welcome Center was a welcome sight for all of us. I was so groggy I could hardly stay awake and the thought of some fresh air and exercise refreshed me. It was even more welcome to my weary evacuees.

On arrival, I could see a long line of tables and tents with tubs of cold drinks, hot food, and clothing strung on makeshift clotheslines. Our convoy of some 30 buses wheeled into place and a law officer jumped aboard, welcomed the evacuees and told them to help themselves to the hot food, cold drinks and clothing.

Tom recognized that this was the perfect place to drop our supplies and found a lady who seemed to be in charge of the clothing distribution. She said she could use them, but when she discovered how many boxes we had she refused them, saying that to offload them and begin unpacking them would create a riot. We quickly realized she was probably correct about the chaos we would create. She suggested we take them to the AstroDome with us and told us where to safely drop them.

As we drivers stretched our legs and backs and washed our faces with bottled water, we were approached by a Texas Ranger who said we needed to have a meeting. When he advised us that the AstroDome was full and wasn’t accepting any more busses and that we would instead have to take our evacuees to Dallas, there was open revolt. Some agreed to continue there, but Tom informed the officer that our group absolutely could not continue all the way to Dallas. (We were 150 more miles to the AstroDome and another 244 miles to Houston!)

The Ranger was apologetic and understanding, but told us we had no choice. Tom offered two options: the first to continue with our six coaches to the AstroDome or, secondly, to leave our evacuees there to wait for additional busses. Tom was calm, but very firm. The officer said he’d be back shortly.

He returned in about 10 minutes saying he had received the okay for our six busses to peel off the caravan to Dallas and to head for the AstroDome. However, just as we began to leave, he returned to say he had received clearance for the entire caravan to go to the AstroDome. What a relief!

While at the Welcome Center, it became apparent that many of my passengers wanted to explain their ordeals to me. They just needed someone to listen. So, I listened patiently to the horrifying details of what they had endured. They cried. We cried. By that time, I could feel a real bonding with my passengers and they with me. (My sister, Marjo, had warned me before I left how emotional the situation could be, but this was the first time I realized how emotionally involved I had become!) I will relate many of the evacuee stories in Part 2.

Friday, September 2, 2005, 7:00 a.m.

What a glorious sight to finally see the AstroDome! My evacuees cheered again! We saw hundreds of busses and slowly wound our way into the spacious parking lots following nose to tail. Just inside the parking lot we were stopped by a volunteer who jumped aboard with diapers and formula for the babies. Their parents were ecstatic!

Another volunteer came aboard offering more bottled water and informing the evacuees that they would need to go through a processing station where volunteers would collect names, social security numbers, etc. She informed them each would be searched for any firearms, drugs and other contraband before being admitted into the AstroDome, The reason, she said, was to prevent the violence of the SuperDome and Convention Center from being repeated. Too, she explained, each would be issued a pink wristband to indicate they had been cleared. Once into the AstroDome, she said, those needing medical attention would be directed to a makeshift clinic manned by volunteer physicians and nurses. My passengers were very patient and cooperative, but eager to get off the bus to get some exercise. I agreed, but asked them to stay near the bus because I didn’t know how long it would be before we needed to move up.

As we waited patiently, many other evacuees came to the bus asking for friends and relatives. They all wore the pink wristbands and many were carrying signs with names of lost friends and family scribbled on them. One man on my bus was re-united with his wife and two children who had arrived on a bus which had left the SuperDome without him more than 24 hours earlier, but he couldn’t enter the AstroDome until properly processed.

Eventually, we were directed into the primary parking lot. My heart sank when I saw a line of at least 200 busses around the AstroDome. I asked a volunteer guard what the procedure was and he explained that they were in line waiting to be processed and unloaded. He estimated it would be at least eight hours before we could unload. He explained that the busses were being searched and processed one at a time because the AstroDome had been overwhelmed with the number of busses arriving and didn’t have enough volunteers to set up additional processing teams.

About that time, I spotted a group of Christian Tours coaches about 100 busses ahead of me and took off on foot to quiz them about the procedure. They had arrived about 11 p.m. the previous night and had been waiting in line for more than eight hours and weren’t even half way around the AstroDome!!

What a bottleneck! Here were nearly 300 busses still trying to unload approximately 50 desperate evacuees each and unable to return to New Orleans to pick up other evacuees. All of the drivers I talked with had been awake for more than 24 hours.

When I returned to my bus, Tom advised me he had gotten clearance to drop our passengers in the parking lot so we could leave for a nearby motel where we had made reservations. He also told us that we couldn’t drop our supplies there and would deal with them after we had gotten some sleep.

You can’t imagine how tough it was to ask the folks to leave the bus. Many wanted to remain, but it was impossible for us to stay awake any longer and they realized it. I was totally drained and so groggy I had difficulty keeping my balance.

As they departed the bus, each stopped to thank me personally for what I had done for them. Many asked me to pray for them and most of them gave me a hug. By that time, the terrific odor had permeated my clothing and as distasteful as it was, there was no way I could refuse a hug of appreciation. I held my breath as each approached me, wished them good luck and told them as a group that they were “survivors” and again that I admired and respected their courage.

In parting, I said to the group that God had allowed them to survive because He let them get safely to the SuperDome, then He kept the roof from caving in on them, then He had delivered them to from the atrocious violence in the SuperDome and had led them to the safety and security of the AstroDome. They seemed very responsive and pleased when I told them that God had brought them this far and He wouldn’t let them down now!

Friday, September 2, 2005, 9:30 a.m.

We finally arrived safely at the Super 8 at Bayview, TX, some 25 miles east of the AstroDome, more than 900 miles from home and nearly 28 hours since we’d waked up in Atlanta. I grabbed what was left of the continental breakfast the motel served, took a hot, hot shower, and climbed into bed for needed sleep. As I quickly drifted to sleep, I felt guilty that I had showered and had a nice, comfortable bed in which to sleep.

Friday, September 2, 2005, 4:00 p.m.

While we were sleeping Tom found a local church group that was collecting items to be distributed at the AstroDome. We headed just two exits down I-10 into an abandoned Wal-Mart parking lot where it took just minutes for the volunteers to unload our goods and load them onto a waiting Wal-Mart tractor-trailer.

We returned to the Super 8 and after a healthy meal at a nearby restaurant, each of us spent the next two hours cleaning, sanitizing and deodorizing our individual busses. I was greatly rested, but faced with the most distasteful task I’ve ever encountered. The bus was totally trashed. I found a tee shirt stuffed down the commode; dirty baby diapers on the floor; filthy, skanky clothing on the seats and floor; and urine and fecal material all over the bathroom.

I was afraid to touch anything, so simply used a broom to sweep everything to the front of the bus. I filled two 50-gallon trashcans, then sprayed the bus with disinfectant and mopped the floor.

We learned late that evening that the AstroDome bottleneck had been relieved and that the SuperDome was nearly cleared of evacuees. Tom told us FEMA was willing to release us from further duty so we could return home with the provision that they may need us later to begin hauling evacuees to northern states once all had been processed and arrangements made for other shelters. He said that he believed it was time to go home the next morning. We all agreed, certain that the critical evacuation was winding down and that we wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind without help.

Saturday, September 3, 2005, 9:00 a.m.

Feeling unusually rested, we fueled at a nearby truck stop after breakfast and headed for home. En route we saw many caravans of electrical trucks, telephone trucks, tractor-trailers loaded with supplies and equipment and several bus caravans headed toward southern Louisiana.

We stopped for lunch in Baton Rouge where we were met by one of our driver’s nephew who had been rescued from the Tulane University campus in New Orleans, flown to Baton Rouge, and rode with his uncle back to the Atlanta area.

At each rest stop along the way strangers approached asking us to relate our experiences with them. Many, particularly in Baton Rouge, were evacuees themselves with stories of their own.

Sunday, September 4, 2005, 2:00 a.m.

Exhausted again after a 17-hour drive I pulled into the driveway at home eager to see Sue again and to crash into my bed. I slept peacefully for 12 hours.

(END)