Brookfield Basics

My heart is in Pine, Louisiana right now as we watch Gustav menace the Gulf Coast.  

 

Three years ago next week in the immediate aftermath of Katrina, I traveled to the Gulf Coast with a group from our Church.  When devastation of such enormity occurs our senses don't fully absorb it.  The breadth of the suffering is so great that we too often think in terms of "regions" that are "stricken", when in fact disasters occur to PEOPLE; individual by individual and family by family.  My heart goes out to the people of the Coast, and I think of the members of the Pine First Baptist Church where we stayed.  Most of all I think of Miss Molly.  

  
We spent one day in Biloxi - right on the Gulf, and I will never forget the scenes of ruin and devastation, the scope of which is beyond the power of words to convey.  Refrigerators in treetops, large commercial fishing vessels laying keel up in the middle of what were once busy streets.  Bare cement foundations where houses once rested, as if some enormous scythe had descended from the sky and severed the homes from their foundations.

 

 

But most of our time was spent in the rural setting of Pine, where we set up base camp at a local church.  We spent eight days traveling form home to home repairing roofs, hauling garbage, hooking up fresh water, providing food and medicine, and cutting endless amounts of trees and limbs.  But more than all that we just listened to people tell us of the things they had seen and experienced.  Words fail you at such moments.  Not because you can’t think of anything to say, but because we came to understand that they didn’t want us to say much.  They just wanted us to listen, and to put a hand on their shoulder as we comforted them.  It is on that trip that I came to understand what a Pastor of ours calls "the ministry of presence".

 

 

 

The rural deep South is a different place.  Even in late September the heat was oppressive.  The outdoors was little more than a giant convection oven; an invisible woolen glove pressed down insistently upon our shoulders.  The people of this region are forged in the twin crucibles of the heat and the soil.  Most were less educated, but carried the quiet strength and wisdom of the country.  They were tough - and I mean tough with a capital “T”.  But despite their unspeakable loss, their generosity of spirit matched their grit.  So many images and people are planted in my memory from that week, but none more so than Miss Molly.

 

She was tiny – just over five feet; and I am sure she didn't hit triple digits on her scale.  She was about sixty and as quiet as a shadow.  I met her one morning as we were finishing breakfast and preparing to head out for the day’s work.  She was standing there, hesitating; she did not want to intrude.  So - I approached her and introduced myself.  I can still hear her reply - “My name is Molly - but folks here call me Miss Molly”.

We talked for a bit, and then she screwed up her courage to ask for help – a request as foreign to her nature as we were to that land. “I’ve heard about your group” she said, “and was wondering if y’all could come by and help me.  You see – I’m all alone”.  As we spoke I learned that she had children, but they were long grown and gone.  I later learned from her Pastor that after years of abuse from an alcoholic husband, she had summoned the courage to divorce him and live alone on her spread.  So we scheduled a day later in the week to visit Miss Molly, and spent that day cleaning, hauling, and repairing.  As we packed up our equipment to leave she could barely speak.  She only murmured, “God Bless you” as she embraced us one by one.  In my memory's eye I see her standing in her driveway and waving good-bye, tears streaming down her cheeks as my own eyes moistened in the back of the pick-up.

She came back to the church a few days later and sought me out, insisting that she be allowed to tangibly express her gratitude to the group.  We refused, but she continued quietly insisting that she be of some service to us.  So we agreed, and I and asked her if she could do some laundry for us. “Why heavens sake sure” she said, and the next day we had fresh clothes to pack up for the long drive home.

 

First Miss Molly melted our hearts - then she broke them.  Months after the trip we learned from her Pastor that her estranged husband came back, and in a psychotic, alcohol fueled rage, put three bullets in her head.  She was found in a crumpled little ball, her dried blood caked and hardened on the wooden floor of her kitchen.

 

Why is it that some people have the hardship of ten lifetimes crammed into one?  Why is it that this demure and kindly jewel was mowed down as if she was no more than a steer on the slaughterhouse floor?

I don’t know the answer to that any more than you do.  But some things I do know………

I know that Miss Molly was the REAL DEAL.  I know that despite her size she was a giant; a lioness whose courage roared louder than mine ever will.  Despite her suffering and despite her living amidst the greatest devastation I have ever witnessed, she was concerned about doing my laundry.   My LAUNDRY for heaven's sake.

Why? How could this have possibly mattered to her at such a time?

I doubt Miss Molly would have given much thought to that question.  It’s just who she was, and if I had asked her I suspect she would have said something like, “You got to help people when they need it.  It’s just what folks around here do”.

I don’t have a picture of Miss Molly; somehow in the rush of things I just forgot.  That was a big mistake. I would give a lot to have that picture.  I would give a lot to show it to our kids as I told them about her.  

 

But I would give more to do her laundry.