There is something in the human spirit that causes us to, when disaster
strikes, long to link ourselves to those impacted. It seems we are searching for a connection.
"My dad has a business partner whose brother was on flight 93."
"My best friend from college went to high school at [insert name of countless locations of school shootings.]"
"The tornadoes in Tuscaloosa ravaged my college town."
After Hurricane Michael I have, unwillingly and with a broken
heart, joined in the chorus:
"My in-laws have a beach house in Port St. Joe,
Florida."
The first time I visited this house was in the summer of
2014. I can't claim a life-long love for the "Forgotten Coast," as it
is affectionately called by those who know it well. However, it's a place that
grows quickly on a person.
That first visit, back in the summer of '14, was when I
realized I could (and would very much like to) not only marry my (then)
boyfriend, but marry into his family. Spend a week at a house in a sleepy beach
town with people and you'll figure out pretty fast how you feel about
them.
Since then there have been multiple trips. Long weekends
spent with friends. Our first New Year's as a married couple. Family beach
weeks with both of our parents. And, most recently, last January, a trip with
our 3 week old son. We were new parents and had no clue what we were
doing so the three of us hunkered down among the locals and snowbirds and
enjoyed the quiet of a beach town in the winter. We took him to many of our
favorite places that week. And I'm glad we did, because some of those are now
damaged or gone.
There's the local spot, Killer Seafood, in Mexico beach
where we sadly pinned a dollar to the (already crowded) wall in honor of our
pug, Presley, who had died the day before we arrived. Killer Seafood is gone
now and that dollar is floating somewhere in the gulf. I wish it would wash
ashore and find someone who needs it.
There's Oyster City Brewing Company in Apalachicola where
we have shared local beer and stories with friends and strangers. They
experienced damage but are up and running as of today, providing a place
for people to gather and, as they put it, try to "resume life as
normal."
And there is, of course, Indian Pass Raw Bar. It's a
place of legend that, if one place can, embodies the spirit of the entire
Forgotten Coast. They lost their doors, their sign, and took on several feet of
water within their restaurant. Their team, mostly family, has already begun a
clean up effort and is donating all of their t-shirts to those who lost even
more than they did.
These are only a few of the local establishments that make this place what it is, and I am only one of many who could write this post. Each person who has spent time down there could pen an ode, and I hope each one will.
As stories of hurt and loss continue to surface in the wake of this disaster, so do stories of heroism, sacrifice, and perseverance. So we will continue to pray. We will continue to give* and go to those who are hurting. Because, in the end, we do in fact have that connection for which we are searching: we are made in the image of God and God is present in tragedies. He is embedded in the lives of the hurting. He is "near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."** As his image bearers, we will try to do the same.
*There are many places you can give to support the Forgotten Coast, but two I can recommend and know to be sincere are:
**Psalm 34:18
