Debris

Last Friday, Dave and I spent the morning clearing rubble and sorting debris at an apartment complex destroyed by the storm. There is something incredibly intimate about sorting through the contents of someone's home. Or what is left of a home.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Hidden among the debris- blocks of shattered concrete, shards of wood, bricks, and broken sheets of plywood, we found treasure: family photos, one dollar coins, a piece of a locker with a purple lock still attached from the high school a half mile down the road, a crock pot, a few pairs of panties, a bra, a set of greeting cards and an old second grade journal from a girl named Ashley. The first page was dated September 16, 1994. In a childlike hand, the entry read, Today we had a tornado drill.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Their lives have been laid bare for the whole world to see. Or at least, our small group of volunteers. We separated the concrete and metal and larger pieces of wood. And we returned whatever personal items we came across to the site headquarters to be reclaimed by the former residents. And then we went home, humbled, shaken, changed.