Rebuilding with grace
A simple place to begin the recovery process
Fred McCormick
The Valley Echo
October 9, 2024
Like nearly everyone around Western N.C., in the moments after Tropical Storm Helene, my mind was trapped in an intense whirlwind of questions.
“Are we Ok? Is our house OK? Are our neighbors OK? What does the rest of town look like? What does Swannanoa look like? How is Asheville? Is anyone ‘OK?’” represented a fraction of the thoughts that raced through my mind.
Since then, I’ve come to realize that “OK” is a relative term and little is known for sure in the days after a catastrophe.
The word “catastrophe” is often tossed about hyperbolically, but make no mistake, it is an apt description of what we all just experienced. We don’t know how many of our friends, neighbors and family members did not make it, and we have even less of an understanding of what this tragedy will do to our communities and environment.
I’ve spent so much time trying to corral my racing thoughts around a helpful theme or idea, as a means to help me through these past two weeks. One word came to me on a rural stretch of road that I was using to commute in and out of town in the days after the storm.
“Grace.”
It’s a concept my mother used to try her best to instill in me to help cope with my perceived unfairness of the world around me. Unfortunately, her obstinate son couldn’t fully comprehend it until after she was gone.
But, grace is almost all I can think about since this terrible thing happened to all of us.
There is nothing fair or just about the situation we find ourselves in. Bad things do, in fact, happen to good people. This is something we all know for sure, because there is no doubt we live in a place filled with amazing folks, and a lot of them have lost all of the things they worked so hard for.
Many of us may never be able to make sense of this. How could this happen here? Could we have been better prepared? Will it happen again? How can I keep my family safe? Can I even do that?
None of us know the answer to these things yet, but there are some things we can be certain of: life has been far from normal, rebuilding will be a cumbersome and lengthy process and uncertainty hangs heavily in the air.
People who didn’t lose everything are still cleaning up layers of mud, fallen trees and debris, while repairing washed out driveways and filing insurance claims, hoping for assistance.
Most of them have been doing all of this, and so much more, without electricity or water.
These are the people you see walking down desolate and dusty stretches of U.S. 70, or gathered in the center of Black Mountain, or navigating a four-way stop at a red light that hasn’t worked in days.
They are also the people out directing traffic into critically needed supply distribution centers or stopping vehicles around disaster areas where vital recovery efforts are underway.
Before this new reality, any of the seemingly random people you encounter among the rubble were the nameless folks sitting down the bar from you at your favorite brewery, or ringing you up at the grocery store.
Now, we find ourselves navigating a new world that feels, simultaneously, foreign and familiar. We all wake up to a new reality almost every day, and anxiety and tension are elevated beyond our typical laid-back mountain vibe.
Some of these thoughts hit me as I sat in a traffic jam on a narrow highway winding between Tennessee and N.C. I was frustrated, eager to get home to Black Mountain and talk to the people I had been unable to contact for at least 24 hours.
“What is this semi doing? Why is this lady braking so much? Am I going to miss this meeting I’m driving in to cover?”
Some Willie Nelson song played on the radio, because there was no phone signal in the remote place I was driving, and I stared out the window at a tranquil creek. This was the kind of place I would be cruising through without a care in the world before the floods, exploring these mountains with my camera.
“Grace,” the word echoed in my head. I was moved.
I began to think about what we’re all going through, both individually and collectively. I don’t know what this person driving in front of me is dealing with, and I’m quite sure the semi-truck holding all of us up is delivering supplies that could assist a stranded family.
Who am I to complain? My family is safe and my house is still standing. I know people who are not as fortunate and they’re just as likely to be driving on a heavily-trafficked road, or waiting for gas in a slow-moving line.
While my eyes are typically drawn to the abundant natural beauty around me while driving through these mountains, I began to fixate on the faces of my fellow travelers. I saw despair, desperation, fear, unease and discomfort.
Exacerbation and exhaustion emanated from the expressions of people whose families have lived here for generations, some who moved here decades ago to raise their kids and others who just arrived, searching for that sense of belonging so many of us have found in WNC.
Some of these folks have financial resources to give to their communities, others will generously allocate their time and energy. But, too many of them will be doing the most they can to survive.
One thing we can offer each other, and ourselves, is grace. It might be the best thing we can contribute at this moment.
This happened to us, not me, not you, not whoever “they” are. This is our shared burden to bear. Even if we didn’t ask for or deserve it.
Things are going to be uncomfortable and difficult to navigate, and people are going to say and post things on social media that others find problematic, but trauma manifests differently in everyone.
The other day, I was walking in Black Mountain, covering the continuously evolving situation, when a man was walking by. I said, “Are you OK?”
He looked me in the eyes and said, “I lost everything.”
I was frozen, ashamed I had possibly re-traumatized this stranger in his darkest hour.
All I could offer was, “I am so sorry this happened to you.”
He offered half of a smile and responded, with a shrug, “thanks, it’s not your fault.”
His grace in that moment was an inspiration, and it reminded me that this isn’t anyone’s fault. It is actually a brutal natural disaster that has shaken all of us to our core.
We have lost a lot, but it has never been easy to define what makes this place so special. Sure, it’s the breath-taking mountain views, the delicious cuisine, the vibrant arts scene and the people who work tirelessly to keep our institutions strong.
But, there is a spirit here that only those who know these mountains, and their people, truly understand. Within it are our best qualities, and keeping it alive is something we owe those we lost and the ones who remain.
It’s up to each of us to figure out what we can do to nurture the soul of WNC in its greatest time of need. Grace might be the simplest place to start.