Eyes on Katrina's After-Wrath

Our van, which the kids dubbed, "Big Blue."


Big Blue took us to the lower Ninth Ward. This is where the storm hit first and where the water was last removed.



We worked yesterday painting a house for a guy named, "Cooler." His was one of many houses destroyed in the storm. Twelve kids from Iowa primed and painted two coats on the house in less than eight hours. The best part was painting over the brown lines across the house where the water level had stained it. Also removed was the spray-painted x that showed that a rescue team had searched the house. The X was above our heads because that's the lowest the boats could get when they searched it. Water covered nearly everything.

New Orleans

Numerous times over the last few weeks, I've heard people say, "I thought all of the work was done there. Why are you going there again?"

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. A West Marine boating store is closed for the night. The shop next door is vacant. The traffic rolls past me as I type around 9 p.m. According to the watermark on the house down the street, less than two years ago where I sat was covered in water that would have been over my head.

The Starbucks behind me is, of course, open. Bourbon Street is alive again with all of its delicious debauchery. Tourists have returned to get their fill of plastic beads, and have their vanilla soy lattes that remind them of home.

I'm part of a 20 member group from Davenport who came to help the city that still suffers. It's my second time down to a city that was ravaged by some bitch named Katrina.

No, the work's not done. Yes, I know why I'm here -- and I'm pretty pissed off I haven't been able to do anything about it.

Today, me and the kids I know through SkateChurch toured the Ninth Ward, one of the worst places in the country, even before the storm. It's the area that was covered so well on CNN as people waved toward hovering helicopters, their fingers reaching from rooftops for help.

That was the aptly-named Flood Street then. Now, the Ninth Ward is a ghost town. Not a ghost town because there is NO ONE here, but because there are houses with spray-painted messages on them. One said, "This was once my home." Crime scene tape remains. Garbage and other refuse lines the streets.

Our job here -- as missionaries -- is to attack the problem on a spiritual and physical level. Any of you who have read A Constant Suicide might be able to tell I don't know where I stand in terms of faith, religion, or God. All I know is when you have 150 people touring the ravaged areas, and praying for help, my question I want to scream in the middle of prayer is:

AREN'T WE THE HELP? SHOULDN'T WE BE OUT DOING INSTEAD OF PRAYING?

My last trip here was with a group of city workers from Davenport. They worked all day, only to gripe about the fact they could only work 12 hours a day.

But tomorrow we start working. After going to "worship" three times in 36 hours, I'm about to stop asking God for help and working as his right hand. He needs as many hands as He can get, and not all of them need to be folded, asking for help when the need for it is right in front of our eyes.