I have been sick lately (so please excuse my long absence from posting) and haven't been able to accomplish those things around the house that need to be done. I can be a perfectionist at times, so still having so many boxes to unpack is driving me up a wall. Plus, I have a couple of rooms to paint and finish decorating. A part of me just wants to finally be settled. My internal laments have been working overtime since I can be sick for a couple of days at a time, putting me behind on all my regular chores not to mention the finishing projects of moving into a new house.
Two days ago, I sat down to watch a documentary with my son. He is studying Weather at the moment so he has been watching many tornado, hurricane, and flood videos. On that particular day, we were watching Frontline, an episode that followed an old man who was returning home after Hurricane Katrina. Here is the link, in case you would like to watch: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/katrina/ The story was a sad one of course, because though I have seen some inspiring stories, I haven't seen any from Katrina that aren't sad. This one focused on 82 year old Herbert Gettridge, who had lived in New Orleans his entire life and had returned home after Hurricane Katrina to rebuild his home for his wife's return. I was simply amazed by the strength of this 82 year old man. He was rebuilding his home by himself! Without water. Without electricity. Without neighbors. Without government assistance. There were a few non-profit organizations and churches that came to help him from time to time, but for the most part, he was on his own. His determination was admirable. His persistence, doubly so.
His story touched my heart. His story was one that reverberated with me because it was one I had heard before...one from generations past. Grandparents who had built a house with their own two hands and would do anything to keep it. It wasn't just wood boards and bricks. It wasn't just a place to store their belongings. It was a home. A place full of family and memories and as much a part of them as their name and face. A story that I would love to be my own. A place that my heart secretly longs for and that I struggle to create for my own children. I could see myself in Herbert Gettridge and his struggles, and I could see those of my ancestors. My heart ached for his devastation, triumphed for over his achievements, and grieved for his loss when he brought his wife home to a place she could not recognize.
Afterwards, all I could think of was: "Shame on me!" Here I am in my house with walls, a roof, floors, running water, and electricity....and I am complaining over not getting a room painted. Or because I haven't enough bookcases for all of my books! I have too much stuff and not enough storage. Or I have storage but nothing stored in it! My worries seem very small in comparison to those who have lost their entire homes, their belongings, their families, and....their memories. In the last few months, a wave of natural disasters have occurred across this country in the form of tornadoes and floods. And across the world, with earthquakes and tsunamis. In my comfort, I cannot see their loss as I should. Shame on me!
