Hurricane Helene Response

Want to give folks living in the aftermath of a natural disaster some comfort? Extend a power cord run by a generator, and voilà!, a church becomes a hub for an unfolding of community support and resilience….thus is born, “The Parable of the Extended Cord.”

 

This parable, in case you’re unfamiliar with it, is indeed about the extended cord, but even more about the hub that the Kenilworth Presbyterian Church became for the neighbors in the Kenilworth neighborhood post-Hurricane Helene. The story, while it may not be unique, is about what happened—at KPC, across the neighborhood—in the weeks following Sept. 27, 2024, and Hurricane
Helene’s assault on the area. By some estimates, this story is nothing short of a miracle.

It hadn’t taken long for word of the cord to get out, for once our phones were working again (the first of several major hurricane created outages to be restored), we all needed to charge them; and with power outages across the neighborhood, we all needed a charge. Word got out, and intentionally so. “There’s a power-strip at the church,” we’d hear someone share, almost in a whisper as though this might be secret information. Phone signal, we found out, was even more essential than power or water (no power for 17 days, no water for 18). Could it be true that the church was providing this service? T’was true, and what comfort to know that, even if we had to light our homes with candles and import nonpotable and drinking water for household use (potable finally arrived 53 days after the storm), we could at least avail ourselves of this power cord service at the church.
 

Some neighbors were a little suspicious: “Can we just walk right in?” “Is the church always unlocked?” Might some have thought they’d have to “come to Jesus” before KPC would let them in? (For anyone who knows KPC, there couldn’t be a more preposterous condition on which KPC would offer help.) Many soon began to realize that, “You have to get there early, before a line starts”—good advice before the options for charging expanded. The offering went from 3 outlets to a dozen in just a few days: as more folks began to rely on the cord to charge their phones, each day brought a new constellation of adapters and power strips so that more devices could be accommodated.
 

Neighbors started to incline towards the church for current, with meetings following soon after. Word was spread via sticky note and sidewalk chalk (on sidewalks not cluttered by fallen debris): “Meet at the church at 11am on Monday.” Thus began a full-blown neighborhood organizing project that would last for several weeks as we began helping each other sort through the rubble of our post-Helene lives.
 

All found comfort, it seems safe to say, in gathering on the KPC lawn for community meetings. These meetings consisted of water restoration updates (always vague: “a few weeks…or more”), directions for shutting down water heaters, where to locate “toilet water”—things got very real very fast as we shared toilet flushing tips with our neighbors. We needed information and, even though the city was sending out daily updates, one had to have a radio and electricity to tune into the daily radio announcements. A few individuals made it their job to learn as much as they could about the status of city services and resources, and these updates were passed on to the rest of us at our meetings.
 

So KPC, in addition to becoming the neighborhood’s go-to charging station, became as well a main venue for many additional activities and outreach. A distribution center, set up outside and inside, was soon chock-full of every imaginable item a body could need post-hurricane: an array of non-perishable foods, flashlights, baby products, buckets, blankets, health aids, animal food, all free and for the taking. A breathwork gathering began taking place in the sanctuary before neighborhood meetings, and a school for tots developed and was held in KPC’s kids’ classroom upstairs. There was one Sunday morning when KPC folks who were attending service had to vacate at exactly noon, since a neighborhood meeting would take over the space immediately following Sunday morning service. And it was hot outside in early October—after torrential rains fell Sept. 27, zero precipitation fell for over a month, just a slew of hot, sunny days following Helene. Why meet on the sunny lawn when we could meet inside where it was cool and where seats were available in the form of pews?
 

The church became synonymous with “refuge” and “resources.” “This is the best use this church has ever been put to!” Pastor Allen Smith said in witnessing what had taken place at “the church on the hill.”
 

KPC was not the only “hero” of the story. There were many deserving of recognition, and most of us knew who those folks were—they’re the ones who automatically stepped into roles so naturally that it seemed they’d been doing this sort of work all their lives. There were organizing angels, and chainsaw angels (“No one else is coming to help us,” someone somberly guaranteed as we tried to figure how we could drive a car out of the neighborhood, so many roads blocked by fallen trees and the power lines the trees took with them); there were garbage-run angels in pick-up trucks hauling away the rotting food from fridges and freezers. Loving Foods Resources also stepped up its game, offering free lunches on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the Kenilworth Residents Association provided much-need leadership for helping us to navigate through. And then there was the “Who Gives a Crap” guy, displaying how one could sanitarily, well, do their “business” in the bucket systems that he was giving out.
 

People in the neighborhood showed up for each other. It was heartening. It was amazing.
 

No need to try to recount here all the damage Helene did across our region—each area has its stories of destruction, leaving us all with a feeling of ubiquitous heartache for the losses, our own and our friends’ and neighbors’. And yet…there was a sweetness that arose from all the chaos and devastation: neighbor helping neighbor. It was as though the disaster brought out a kindness in folks that made them eager to help each other out, made them genuinely concerned for each other’s well-being. And in the Kenilworth
neighborhood, which tends to be political and posts countless yard signs as proof, there was no talk of politics. No one cared what politics anyone adhered to—disaster leveled the playing field, and regardless of age or income or political affiliation, we were all equal in the eyes of this natural disaster. No longer Democrats or Republicans, nor wealthy or poor, nor old or young, we were just a group of people brought together by a common cause of needing help and wanting, in turn, to extend help. In the background of all that happened stood Kenilworth Presbyterian Church, always extending the offering of welcome, its motto being “Everyone is welcome here.” This motto is not just empty words but is demonstrated daily by the work that members and friends of KPC carry out, where God’s presence is felt among us while we use our hands to do God’s work.
 

Helene was brutal in her blow. But what option did we have but to pick up the pieces and, collectively, try to put them together again. In some ways, it’s sad that it takes a natural disaster to bring out the goodness in people. But perhaps this goodness that rose to the surface among so many folks will be where we start as we rebuild ourselves as well as our town.
 

The church stands steadfast, a welcoming presence. Debris and destruction, even one year out, continue to be evident in the neighborhood and across the area. It will take some time before we feel a return of anything resembling “normal.” While we usher in what may be a new normal, we can remember the Parable of the Extended Cord. A cord was offered—and a community, together, reached out—kindly, generously, resiliently.