Memories of aiding
Katrina victims still linger

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

Two years ago this month I was in Gulfport, Miss. I knew of a church in Philly that was taking a team of adults down south to help with Hurricane Katrina relief efforts, and I finagled my name on the list.
We were to caravan for the 20-hour car ride. My van ended up leaving later than the rest because we had to wait for one of our team members. A man named Danny.
Danny grew up in the not-so-nice sections of Philadelphia. Danny is a husband, father and recovering addict. Danny is also an incessant talker, so much so that his job on the way down was to keep me awake as I drove through the night.
He didn’t take a breath and I didn’t fall asleep. Danny has the ability to talk to anybody about anything, but his favorite topic these days is his love for Jesus. Unfortunately, Jesus was not always his drug of choice, and because of a past indiscretion, Danny spent some time in jail.
In fact, he was released from prison at 11 a.m. on the Monday of our departure. By 3 p.m. the next day, Danny, an electrician by trade, had restored electricity to the home of a single mom who had been living without it since Katrina hit.
Danny was worth the wait.
Another memorable team member was Bobbie Jo, who also grew up in the not-so-nice sections of Philly. Bobby Jo once had a benign tumor in her lower back.
At the age of 21 she suffered an injury that caused the tumor to wrap around the base of her spine, rendering her paralyzed from the waist down. She spent the next 11 years living life from a wheelchair. Eight weeks before Katrina hit, Bobbie Jo’s spine miraculously healed. Two weeks after Katrina hit, Bobbie Jo was in Gulfport, unloading a truck full of water bottles.
Knowing her story and watching her bend over to pick up a pallet of water, I rushed to her side to take it out of her hands. She elbowed me in the ribs and said, "Honey, God gave me my legs back for a reason, now get outta my way."
It was then that I knew I wanted to be Bobbie Jo’s friend for life. Bobbie Jo is married to a man she met at a wheelchair weightlifting competition. God sure works in mysterious ways.
My official job for the week was chief cook and bottle washer. It’s my title at home, so why not on the road? The church that housed us literally had hundreds of people pass through its doors each day, some offering help, some in need of help. No one was turned away.
At one point there were 60 Navy Seabees on campus for the day. I offered to feed them dinner. We had 40 "in-house" people to feed that day. With the Seabees, our numbers jumped to 100. It was 4 p.m. Dinner was to be at 5. We had only 50 pieces of chicken. At 4:15 there was a knock at the back door of the church. Two men stood there, their arms laden with foil pans full of cooked ham, potatoes, vegetables and rolls. Enough to feed 60 people. Sometimes God works in obvious ways.
A memorable conversation I had that week was with a man living with quiet dignity on what used to be his friend’s front lawn. He slept under the stars and a tattered American flag he’d draped across a tree branch. His stomach had been severely burned while he rescued a little girl from a fire that erupted in his now non-existent apartment building during the hurricane. I asked if I could take his picture. He obliged, on the condition that I send him a copy. He gave me a P.O. box. I hope he got it.
The week flew by for those of us offering help, just as it dragged by for those in need of it. At the end of our time, a few teammates were lamenting how they wished they could have done more, feeling like the good work they did do was just a proverbial drop in the bucket.
Oh, but what a privilege to be that drop. And, after time, with enough drops, the bucket eventually overflows. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@verizon.net