Our ordeal began Sunday morning, August 29, with a visit to an evacuation center in town where almost 100 people were gathered to wait for the storm. We met, talked and prayed with our local people, some of whom were known to us.
On the way in the shelter, we first encountered a young man nervously pacing outside the building. As soon as he saw us, tears filled his eyes — he was very worried about his wife who was six months pregnant, as well as the rest of his family. Unable to do anything and go anywhere, he was just hoping for the best. Bishop Fabre and I prayed with him and then went inside to visit the young man’s family.
After our visit at this shelter, we drove to another shelter located on the other side of our city. However, the wind and rain was already picking up so fast that we had no choice but to return to the rectory; the hurricane is fast approaching. After the Angelus bell rang that night, we hardly did much but to each go to our rooms or our small prayer room to pray, and wait. It didn’t take long before the winds came with the rain — we saw them coming! By evening the whole city was in darkness and all you heard was the howling of the wind, the pounding of the rain with debris on our rectory walls, and sounds outside that seemed to tell us Ida is here and she’s in full control.
We woke up Monday morning, August 30, to sights I hadn’t seen in the 34 years that I’ve been living in my adopted home of Thibodaux, LA. This city and the whole of our diocese covering six civil parishes, with a total population of 220,054, (Catholics 87,050), had just suffered the wrath of Hurricane Ida, a Category 4 storm pounding us with 150 plus mph wind and rain that lasted for 18 hours. The electricity went out, the phone signals disappeared; sirens from ambulances, police and firetrucks were the only sounds you could hear.
We immediately took off from the comfort of my rectory, our bishop, the vicar general and I anxious to check on our people and places. We didn’t have to go far to see the immediate effects of the storm, for right there outside the back door of my rectory were broken branches from our century-old live oak trees, parts of the copper roof from the Co-Cathedral church, broken pieces of my rectory and buildings. I didn’t even think of checking our campus for damages — I just wanted to go out, out there where I knew our people were.
As soon as we pulled out of our driveway parking lot, the leaning, bent and fallen electric posts and wires dangling from them were the first things we saw, calamity – pruned trees and debris from houses everywhere littered the roads. People who stayed were already outside their homes, picking up broken pieces of properties they worked so hard to build, throwing away damaged belongings that once held memories, pausing every now and then to look around, look at each other, and with humble submission continue on the clean-up. This scene was repeated at every home and place we passed by.
The word “catastrophic” is the best word to describe the scenes around us. There were homes without walls, buildings without roofs, places without people. Some people were desperately driving trying to get to their homes and places hoping to save what was left behind, and for some, not much. We drove as far as we could in the areas surrounding us trying to see people, places and check on our churches.
For the next few days we did the same thing, with occasional breaks to attend briefings of local Emergency Operations Center (EOC) officials, have meetings with our diocesan leadership, meet donors and organize donations, prepare and distribute meals — over and over again. And each day, we saw people as described above and sights that didn’t change much. The reality of our situation became clear: It will take a long time for us to recover.
I spoke with so many grandparents with tears in their eyes, worried parents, and exhausted volunteers. We were slowly being drained of many things: It had been seven long days since Hurricane Ida made landfall.
Yesterday, after spending all day down the bayou (Golden Meadow, Galliano, Cut Off, Larose) from 7 a.m. until almost 6 p.m., I finally got to return to my rectory. I started driving down the road watching the now familiar scenery. Caught in a long line of traffic, I turned the radio on but what came out were the same reports and stories about the devastations in NOLA that saturated the airwaves, but not much mentioning the bayou communities who were deeply and mostly affected by the hurricane. I decided to turn the radio off and just listen to some music to give my mind and soul a rest. When I turned on my carplay, I was surprised with the music that came on from one of my favorite artists. I was listening to her long before the storm came and the words of her music brought tears in my eyes; that moment everything came together, and then some. The song is “How Can I keep From Singing” by Eva Cassidy.
The traffic very slowly started moving with the music in my car playing along. As I passed by the road, I saw made-up distribution stands and locations organized randomly by people, businesses and churches. There were truckloads of donations scattered everywhere brought about by people from Nebraska, Michigan, Texas — everywhere! Our good neighbors from the Dioceses of Lafayette and Lake Charles sent their Catholic Charities personnel, crews and volunteers to help us, bringing with them food, supplies and “faithful-power”! There were people helping people, neighbors reaching out to neighbors, people praying for and with each other. Smiles and laughter, hugs and kisses were shared. What little they have, they gave and shared without regard or distinction. Seeing all these, “How Can I Keep From Singing?!” And I know more of this will come, I already saw it coming. In the midst of all the devastation and destruction I saw faith come alive and hope slowly trickle in brought about by generous people who gave from the richness of their hearts.
In just a few minutes I will celebrate my Sunday Mass — the ultimate gift of God that made all of these things possible. This core of our faith is what made us rise above every situation, endure all things and hope beyond hope. With this in our hearts and minds, even surrounded by tragedies, we have reasons to sing and believe and celebrate. We may have lost roofs, walls, homes and businesses — but we have God who gave us everyone and everything! And God will see us through this as always; just keep on believing and singing his love and praise.
(Very Rev. Vicente DeLa Cruz, V.F., is pastor of St. Joseph Co-Cathedral in Thibodaux, and dean of the Upper Lafourche Deanery.)