tyrone

Yesterday, we met “our” homeowner for the first time. But it didn’t really feel like meeting a stranger. We had already met his kitchen china, his children framed on the wall, his living room furniture, and the kids room with Looney Tunes characters hand-painted over the crib. As mud and mold and hardened film were scraped away we had slowly been discovering the life of a family.
Very few photographs hadn’t irreversibly bled into themselves and the mud, but we had seen a few shots – some of a young girl named Tyra. None of the parents.

But when Tyrone pulled up just before lunch, I could swear we recognized him.

He and his family – Tyra is now 17 years old we found out, and his small nephew lived what was the baby room – are still in the area. He’s secured an apartment, and is still able to work at the job he had before. His wife does Christian ministry – and we had seen that in the ruins too – matted books about Jesus from one of the bookshelves.
We shook his hand. We talked and heard his story. How they had left two days before. How his neighbor (and he pointed to the house) had not, and was rescued from the rooftop.
We showed him his house. It’s still necessary to wear a mask inside – the mold is still pervasive and dangerous. What were we supposed to feel about our work? Proud? A little. We worked so hard. Sad? Tyrone said that his wife would have only been able to cry if she had come.

We signed a Bible for him – a gift from us and Samaritan’s Purse – and he read each of our notes. He thanked us – and again, and again. We said it was no problem. It sounded cliché. We said that he was welcome. And then – all together – we prayed.