Those who mourn

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

The words went through my mind as I drove through Owego for the first time since the flood last Wednesday.

Everyone uses the word “devastating” when they talk about this flood. The English teacher in me wants to say the word is overused, therefore inapplicable.

But it really is devastating.

The picture above is of a bookshop on the main street. It’s on a corner, and the heaps of waterlogged, silty books extend around the corner and up the street. But it isn’t just one locale that was hit. Driving through the town, it seems almost as though not one locale escaped.

Antiques. Bicycles. Teddy bears. Clothing. Everywhere, the muddy brown piles of families’ material history line the curbsides. I brought my camera, but something prevents me from snapping pictures of these achingly personal heaps. Emergency vehicles and orange cones force creative detouring.

My daughters and I set out to take some cleaning supplies to our church, which is organizing work teams. On the way we stopped at the local fire department to pick up more bottled water, as the boil water order continues in effect. “Need any bread?” they asked. “Take some. Please.”

When they learned that we were on our way to our church, they asked if the church needed bread to distribute. I called the church and learned that most of the people staying there had gone. They were sending their bread to a downtown church that was a hub of activity, so we hauled off two flats of bread from the fire station to that church. Some firemen from downstate carried it in, and one of the dear women distributing supplies to the needy asked me if the fire station had any dry ice they wanted to give away. “People keep asking for it, and we don’t have any. I sure would appreciate it.”

So we delivered our cleaning supplies to our church, made one more small delivery, then headed back to the fire station. They loaded up dry ice bags, filling the back of my compact SUV. “It won’t last another day sitting out like this,” they said. “Better leave a window open — that’s a lot of carbon dioxide.” Off we went, back the church in the center of town, where the firemen unloaded it and the woman looked delighted.

It’s been a strange, frustrating few days of helplessness for various reasons. It was really encouraging to feel of some use. Basically, we drove around. One thing led to another, and it helped some people. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know my way around town that well. It doesn’t matter that I’m not really in a position to suit up and go into the worst of it with two young kids. Plans are good, but today it didn’t matter that we didn’t have one. All we had to do was show up.

After the last delivery, we went to the monarch park and saw that it has dried up a bit more. Most everything has a sullen coating of brown around here, but standing there on this hot, windy day, I felt the assurance that there will be green pastures again. Because even in the midst of all that heartache, all those treasures piled on curbs, the town is still alive and kicking. People are helping each other. Churches are offering food and drink in Christ’s name. Recovering is going to be a hard process, and it’s going to take a long time. But I hold to those words from the Sermon on the Mount: those who mourn will be comforted.