Homecoming & Hurricanes

In the last few months, I often considered writing a final post in this blog.  A post to say that I am home, that after almost a year of living in France, I’m back in Wilmington, a place I love and that truly feels like mine.  But it never felt right to write these final words until now.

Two weeks ago, I watched as a hurricane threat became real.  In this part of the state we hear hurricane warnings pretty regularly but often they’re nothing to worry about.  They often stay out in the ocean or calm before they reach land.  On occasion, they do bring damage, but since I’ve lived here it’s never had catastrophic impact on the city as a whole.

Florence was different.  The usual media hype and drama that happens every time was paired with serious weather reports.  The prediction was category 4 winds ripping up Wrightsville Beach after spiraling out in the Atlantic for days. 

Before this storm, I had never left town for threats in the past.  I was blessed that this time my circumstances allowed me to make the easy choice of leaving, but it’s important to remember that not everyone was able to make that choice.  Many had to stay because of the cost of leaving, obligations at work, family responsibilities or lack of transportation.

As I prepared to go, I put my belongings up as high as I could and left town when the sun was still shining.  Two of my best friends got married a few days early and flew off to Bali before the storm hit.  Their wedding was joyous and lovely.  A real miracle that it all came together in last minute planning and after the celebration, I got some precious time at home with my parents

But through all of that, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being disoriented 200 miles away from my city enjoying sunshine while Wilmington was swaying and breaking under torrential wind and rain.  It felt so wrong to not be near my city when it suffered so.

The eye of the hurricane hit us directly.  Florence’s first landfall hit our beach, my favorite beach spot just south of the water tower by the yacht club.  The winds weren’t as strong as the meteorologists expected, but the rain was long and harsh.  The rivers expanded and swelled well past their normal boundaries.  The storm just seemed to linger and national news was replaying the same reel of terrifying footage. 

Confusion is the only word I can use to describe that time.  National news reports portrayed something so different from what I saw in the local papers.  Social media was a complete dichotomy.  Some of my friends were weathering the storm, deep in destruction, others were partying the hurricane away with assurances that things really weren’t too bad.  Some who had evacuated were thick with worry, others were convinced that Florence was nothing.

Routes back into the city were closed and big name newspapers like Washington Post labeled Wilmington an island cut off to the outside world.  Despite that, I knew people were coming and going.

 Friends started heading home and mixed reports came back of the damage.  My anxiety rose, and I was so torn and wishing that I could just see how we were holding up as a community but city officials were asking us not to come home.

After a week and a half away, I made it home last Friday and all I can say is that I’m so happy to be home.  I’ve been reminded that there is no apartment or house in this city that is truly my home, but it is the land itself and the people who occupy it.  I love this town.

In the midst of it all, it’s still hard to say how we’re doing, but I’ll give it my best attempt.  For the most part, we’re doing alright.

Some of us are fine. Some people are going back to work, their yards are clean, AC is pumping, water is safely outside their home and their friends seem to be okay too.  Some lost everything.  Some are looking for somewhere to live because their homes are uninhabitable.  A few lost loved ones.  Some feel utterly hopeless because they can’t imagine how to come out of this.

There has been looting.  Homes and stores were left unwatched and unprotected and people were desperate. They took things that didn’t belong to them.

Farmers here in Wilmington and especially in the surrounding areas watched their whole income drown in floodwater.

Some children are terrified of clouds, because the sun has been out for days and the last clouds they remember brought havoc and destruction.

Some people are paid salary and won’t see a pay cut.  Others have savings to cut the difference. Some barely make rent, bills, and food on a normal month. A month when they lose all refrigerated food and are out of work for a week or more is devastating.  Others were seeking help recovering from addiction and for a week or so that help was gone.   

Like so terribly often in our world, those with money and resources are okay.  If you really want to, you can pretend that a hurricane never came through this city.  Sometimes with the right tunes on the radio, I forget.  I don’t see the mounds of hundred-year-old trees piled on the sides of the road, and I don’t stop to see if there is anyone waiting at the other side of the intersection when the stop light is out.

In the midst of all of this, I cannot image being out of the country right now.  A week and a half away from home during this craziness was hard, and I know that being on the other side of the ocean would have worn me down low.

When I moved away from Wilmington last summer, I didn’t have plans to move back.  I was excited to move on to a new adventure and had no idea what life would look like moving forward.

The more that I thought about the friendships and the community that I have here, however, I realized that I wanted to make this place a priority.  There are people in this city who know how to live for others, how to live life as a community founded on love.  Friendships like that are worth fighting for.

So when I was accepted to the Creative Writing MFA program at UNCW, I jumped at the chance to move back home.  What a blessing to get to be here in this moment.

Hard times have a way of pulling people together and I’ve seen so much goodness in this. People are giving their time and strength to do work that is hard and sometimes downright disgusting.  When I came home to a flooded and moldy apartment, I was amazed by so many strong hands and offers of homes, beds, couches, roofs. 

People are so good. In all this, we are learning how to live together, really together.  How to ask for help and give help.  How to eat and laugh and sweat together.  We were designed to move together and for each other. 

I’m grateful to be home.