the flood, part one

Dear God. Where do I start?

The last week in Nashville has been surreal. Overwhelming. Unprecedented. All of these words have been used by others to describe what has happened. And yet, no words can describe what has happened.

Saturday night, I stood under a tent in the rain at a crawfish boil, trying to eat as many of the little buggers as possible, cognizant that the oil spill in the gulf would likely obliterate the chances of having fresh crawfish again anytime soon.

On Sunday, the concern about crawfish seemed a distant memory.

At first, we were concerned about our own little plot of land. We noticed we had two inches of water in the basement. Then, an hour later, it had become 15 inches. And rising. So I began calling every store that might sell sump pumps, only to find that they were sold out. Everywhere. And that's when I began to realize the problem was widespread--and our basement was not the only thing that was flooding.

Then, there were the images on the news. A portable trailer floating down I-24. The Harpeth River rising to meet the school where I work. The houses covered in water. And rain continuing to fall. And water continuing to rise. And cars in water, people in water, houses in water, landmarks in water.

It was the train-wreck you couldn't turn away from. Except that it was the train-wreck happening in your back yard. You could sit there watching it on the television, but you could also feel the pain echoing right outside your front door.

First, it was the 100-year flood. Then it became the 500-year flood. Then some even dared to call it the 1,000-year flood. But no matter how many years were attached to it, one thing was clear--it was a major flood that was affecting thousands of people right now.

I admit, the first two days, I spent transfixed to the TV. I watched the footage--almost trying to believe it couldn't be true. Especially on Monday, when the weather was sunny and absolutely gorgeous--it was the perfect spring day. But devastation was just two miles away. And that beautiful sun was dancing upon the very waters that were causing so much destruction.

Then, on the third day, I went into the heart of the beast. After the waters receded, I went to help some co-workers who lived in the neighborhoods that were featured on the local news stories--the neighborhoods where you could only see the roofs sticking out of the water.

Driving down those streets felt like driving through a really terrible miles-long rummage sale. Every household had piled furniture, clothing, appliances, etc. out by the curb. No matter what significance these things held or memories they represented, they were now contaminated goods. Trash. The sadness in the air was heavier than the humidity.

And that's when I realized--you can see the images in the media--you can think you understand the gravity of the situation. But until you meet those families. Until you get up close and personal with the destruction. Until you see the baby clothes covered in slime, and the photographs morphed into abstract watercolors, and the antique family furniture propped on the trash pile.

Until then...you have no idea.

(to be continued)