Sandy Relief Revisit | This Is Belle

The second morning of work days in Long Beach, Long Island I traveled to another job site.  I was a ride along.  I wasn’t sticking around the job.  Just driving a truck back. 

We rolled up.  The street was quiet with cars scattered along the curbs on both sides.  Some worked.  Some were seized by salt water in the wrong places.  A few people watched us drive by.  One might have waved.  I imagine not a small buzz occurs on a little neighborhood street like this, in a town that was recently ravaged by a superstorm, when a Disaster Relief van rolls up.

We parked, sort of near the curb, blocking the driveway of the house the team would be serving that day.  As the facilitator walked the job with those who would stay around and work, I moseyed around outside to look around.

After interacting with a neighbor from across the street for several minutes, another neighbor caught my eye.  This was the neighbor right next door.  The sun was out.  At first glance, her shadow on earth was at least 50 years longer than mine.  She was narrow and leaned heavily on a cane.  She stood like a monument in the middle of her front yard surrounded by a four foot high chain-linked fence.  I imagined for a moment the water line at the height of the top rail.  Good grief, she’d be nearly underwater.

She was watching me.  I wondered if she was collecting data on me like I was on her.  I walked over to the fence.  She just kept watching me.  I moved slow and tried to figure out when to say hi.  I needed to be close enough so she heard me, but not so far back that the pause in dialogue would be awkward.  I was sure she wasn’t thinking as hard as I was.  Does she need Jesus?  Does she want to talk?  How bad is her home damaged?  Is she healthy?  What’s my opener? 

“Hi there!” I hollered at a moment that felt right.  I smiled and approached the fence. 

She leaned in to walk toward me.  She moved slow too.  Her cane held her gait steady.  Slow and steady wins the race.  She wasn’t tired.  Just seasoned by life; nearing the finish line. 

She wore a long white knit sweater and a black fleece beanie.  A couple thin matted braids dangled from beneath the beanie.  Her dark brown skin made it difficult to see any expression.  Finally she smiled.  Her dark eyes came alive.  Her face was ancient.  Long deep creases with hanging cheeks that peaked near her eyes when she smiled.  Wrinkles in time with stories to tell.

I don’t remember how I opened conversation after my greeting.  Probably something lame like, “How are you?”  A question that deserves a flat response like, “Good.”  But not from this little lady.  She began to share.  Skipped the pleasantries that put people at ease.  Went right into a mixed medley of life story, history lesson, and theology. 

Her speech was slow and paced out.  Her voice was soft with an edge of intensity, like short fiber carpet is soft with an edge.  The storm was the least of her trials.  She’d lost four loved ones in the past four years.  One was her mother at 110 years of age.  I looked closely at her eyes.  She’d been crying; maybe for four years.  But she didn’t appear hurt.  Just sad.  It occurred to me, that sweater probably fit better before she lost four loved ones in four years. 

She talked a short bit on the storm.  But she moved quickly into her sermon for me.  Her eyes concentrated on me.  Every word she said, she’d said before with just as much faith. 

“God is good. You can trust that.”

She repeated those words several times.  Must have been her sermon title.

“God is good.  You can trust that.”

Her life illustrated it.  The storm illustrated it.  She talked about how God used a storm to reassemble a fragmented community.  The shattered mess of the storm was nothing compared to that of the lives of broken individuals living in isolation and self-sufficiency before the wind and waves came ashore.  After the storm, people joined hands and worked together.  Neighbors helped one another drag sofas and carpet and appliances to the curb where they were promptly picked up by regular garbage patrol folks.  They sorted together through the soiled memories of photo albums, handmade quilts, and heirloom treasures.  As the community was mended, so were lives. 

“God is good.  You can trust that.”

She said it again.  Then she looked deep inside me. 

“You understand what I’m saying…”  Which was not as much a question as it was a firm statement.  She not only knew I could stand on that truth, she knew I would. 

 

We closed our dialogue as it was time for me to head back to another job. 

“What is your name?” I asked, half embarrassed that we’d gone this deep without an introduction.

“It’s Belle,” she replied with a hint of drawl necessary for a name like that. 

Of course it is, I thought to myself as I glanced over the charm and beauty of this old woman’s words and life. 

“Pray for me,” she asked.  I did…and I have more than a few times since.