Remembering Katrina and Sam

Prime time TV was dominated recently by shows honoring the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. Thoughts of that time in my life five years ago flood my mind now as I recall where I was and what I was doing then. A few days after Katrina struck, I hitched a ride on a bus from a neighboring church and ended up in Laurel, Mississippi. In return for my service there, I received a healthy dose of love, friendship, and Christian hope. I spent most of my time there with a local named Sam. He was an 86-year-old black man and I was 41 at the time. Sam grew up as a farmer. I grew up as a shortstop. Yet we got along quite well together. In his red and gray half ton Dodge Ram truck, Sam escorted me to his neighborhood, one of the poorest in Laurel, explaining how tough it was for folks there. We visited and checked on folks in several houses, each seemingly in a more desperate situation than the previous one. As we pulled away from one particular house, Sam reached his breaking point. He stopped his truck in the middle of the road, put his face in his hands and sobbed like a baby. For a few awkward moments, I simply watched and listened as an 86-year-old man cried. 86-year-old men aren’t supposed to cry. They deserve to be enjoying every precious moment they have left. I reached over and comforted Sam with a hand on his shoulder and a few words of reassurance. I sensed at that instant I was living in a holy moment. Two men from different backgrounds, of different ages, and whose skin color didn’t match, were bound by the same Holy Spirit. For a moment, I felt as if God was physically present in our midst in a way I have rarely experienced in my lifetime. I returned to Laurel a week or so later to help distribute more supplies for folks in Sam’s neighborhood. Sam wiped a tear from his eye at one point and assured me that God had sent me there and had brought us together for a reason. Sam and I spoke by phone only once after my last visit to Laurel but I thought of him constantly. Spending time with him and soaking up his wisdom had permanently enriched my life. Four months after Katrina I got a card in the mail from Sam’s wife. My friend’s journey on this earth had ended and he was at home with his Father in Heaven. Yet my eyes did not fill with tears and my heart didn’t sink. Instead a smile crossed my face as I remembered Sam and his desire to see and experience Heaven. He lived 86 tough but wonderful years and until his dying breath, he was serving others and was as joyful and peace-filled as any human on earth. What else could one ask for? Katrina is now a bad word and hardly anybody names a daughter after her. Understandable. But when I hear of Katrina, I choose to remember Sam and my other friends in Mississippi who thought I was touching them, but who in actuality touched me in a way I will remember for the rest of my life.