- Follow Us!
By the time I woke up the marketplace was eight, maybe even nine, feet under water. Luckily my family and I were living on a slightly higher elevation and were safe for now. I figured my host family would appreciate having some food from the local store on hand should the storm worsen and headed out with my classmate Paul.
On our way back from the store, we saw a group of men at the church. They had fashioned a raft out of a 3' x 4' x ½" wooden board, four 4-foot long bamboo poles probably a good 5 or 6 inches in diameter, some rope and an old tired fashioned into an inner tube. I rushed home to deliver the groceries returning to the church.
When I returned, I was told to hurry up and join the men who had already left, raft in tow.
I caught up to the men (including Paul) as they were reaching the edge of a severely flooded street. Some of our church members were stranded in a flooded area. The plan was to swim the raft to them and if needed, ferry the family back to dry land.
With four of us swimming alongside the raft we pushed the raft through the ten feet deep water. The water was a dark brown, bordering on black. Oil coated the water, leftover from all the cars, buses, jeeps and motorcycles that daily crowded the city streets. The smell of gasoline filled our senses and sat heavy on our skin as we swam through the water.
Eventually we found ourselves near the side of the flooded street, and next to a large mess of power and phone lines. It is not uncommon to find power lines tangled and frayed, often dipping down to the height of a man, and it was no different here. Our journey thus far had been rather slow, as it was just Chris upon the raft rowing with a bamboo pole and four people behind trying to push it through the water. Our legs had easily tired within the first fifteen minutes. Chris stood up slowly and with his large hands grabbed hold of the low hanging power lines, then started to pull. With little care for the potential danger or the damage he could be doing, Chris continued to pull us arm length by arm length down the flood street. Finally we reached the alleyway down which our church members lived and wedged the raft into the mouth of the inlet.
Men, women and children crowded the windows of the second floor, some even on their rooftops, as the water had risen above the first story. I had brought my food back home, but Paul had rushed off with the raft, throwing his food onto the watercraft to deal with later. So as we sat there waiting for the youth pastor, Josh, to swim his way to the doorstep of our church members to check their well being, many eyes saw the food that lay upon our raft. For many, it had been hours since they had eaten, some far longer, perhaps even a day. We began to hear people call out for food. Our hearts began to break. Yes, there were hungry people waiting at home, but here are the hungry, and now homeless calling out for something to eat.
We quickly tore into the various crackers and began to throw handfuls up to outstretched arms. Very quickly it was all gone. And then we sat and waited for Josh as the feeling of helplessness sat heavy on our shoulders. I felt so unfulfilled. My heart was broken for those around me and yet nothing I could do was enough.
And there it was: We were literally unable to do anything more than just be with them. To sit alongside those who were suffering. It was one thing to be for them, it was quite another to be on behalf of them; but it was something beautiful to be with them. It was there that I understood what it meant to be with the poor.