I spent Fall Break in New Orleans, gutting houses and churches that had not been touched since Hurricane Katrina. Largely these places looked decent from the outside, besides weedy lawns and a broken window or two, but inside they were masses of mold and rot. You could see the waterline where the mildew splayed over the drywall. Pictures and possessions were strewn over floors tiled and carpeted. Appliances sat rusted and filled with insect colonies. It looked, felt, and smelled disgusting. In rooms with carpet, we had to shovel off the year-old mud on the surface and remove the carpet before we could dig out the ankle-deep sediment that lay beneath. Everything had to go; everything had been contaminated. Furniture, clothes, appliances, bathtubs, toilets, drywall, paneling, insulation, tiles, linoleum, baseboards, nails-- all of it mingling in a putrid heap by the curb, often sprawling across the entire front lawn.
In the last house I worked on I came across a wallet-sized picture of a couple who, I assume, were the homeowners. The snapshot must have been on the second floor, since it was undamaged and the water had submerged the first story. In the picture they were carefully dressed and smiling.
I was impressed with a sense of the fragility of life. As I shoveled muck I thought about my home, and what it would look like in the same situation. It was hard to realize, but the houses used to be nice, used to smell good, used to be inhabited by more than nuclear albino roaches. It can all go away with one storm.
We met people who even through disaster had such joy. It was apparent that the destruction of the foundations of their homes had not affected the foundations of their faith. maybe they used to be defined by their possessions; maybe the storm shook them more than I could see. I don't know. But a year after Katrina, living in miniscule FEMA trailers, they were cheerful and warm and generous.
I learned a lot from them, and from the Service International staff we worked with. They were all volunteers, people who sacrificed their home lives to come and direct a bunch of hyper college kids with sledgehammers. They stayed when we left. Our Fall Break is over, but their work continues.

I am tired. Fall Break was hard work, but the week since I've been back has been more stressful than any physical labor. God is good, though, and for some reason He still loves me.
Human beings are the crowning glory of the Creation of Omnipotent God, and yet by and large we are a thick, pigheaded lot who can't see what's good for us when it's smacking us upside the head.

Pedestal Appraisal

You may be shocked by this, and I hate to disturb your tranquil beliefs, but the truth must be told. Recently, I grew tired of my pedestal.

I was standing one day when the realization struck that I was not dancing anymore. My feet had quite lost their spring. I had begun to gaze upon the huddled hand-holding masses below, wishing, with wistful sigh, that one might come and extend a gallant hand to assist my descent from my perch. The breeze was no longer refreshing; it was cold. I ceased to take pleasure in conversing with my fellow pedestal dwellers. The expansive view afforded me from my height was bleak and stark. In short, I had listened to far more Michael Buble than is considered healthy for a young unattached person of my disposition.

I had come so far in thought as to nearly wish myself off and away from my pedestal, and, had this ennui remained unchecked, I cannot say where it would have stopped. Perhaps never-- perhaps my mad career would have ended in a general smash-up somewhere along the line-- save for an Unpleasant Experience, which, though grossly offensive and quite perturbing, had the effect of removing the scales from my eyes.

I cannot enumerate, I cannot be explicit, as to the precise details of this Unpleasant Encounter. I can only make vague allusions to tire swings, boxer shorts, and cow patties. Suffice to say that it was enough to send me springing to my feet again on my pedestal, rejoicing in my state.

All of my female readers will acknowledge the existence of Creepy Fellows. The kind that cause a clenching in your throat and a leaden heaviness in your gut; the sort that cannot take a hint and do not understand sarcasm; the ones who are past masters in the Art of Lurkery. It was such a one that was the source, the wellspring, of my Unpleasant Experience. It was weird and awkward and provoking--and yet there has come some good out of it.

Rejoice with me, one and all, for I have discovered the use of the Creepy Fellow. They are of some good, after all. It was the Creeper that led me to appraise my pedestal. I took a good, long, hard look at where I stood and where I wanted to stand. My discoveries were of interest.
Though my pedestal has fallen into some disrepair of late, it is nothing that cannot be handily mended. As for the location, where better? I have a commanding view of humanity in general, excellent company, and a brisk and bracing breeze to spur on my dance.

Presently there is nearly nothing that could tempt me from my pedestal. I had something of a scare, in that instead of a gentlemanly, gracious, great-heart to persuade me from my post, I was beckoned to by a sinister and macabre spectre. This is all new for me, and my reaction is to cling leechlike to my state of single blessedness.

In sum, my pedestal is good enough for me, and will be for a long while yet. I may owe a debt of thanks to the Creeper, but I think that for the frightful discourtesy with which he destroyed a cherished illusion or two of mine, we can all it even.