Story, Value, and Becoming More Real
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When the Flood Carried Kindness

January 20, 2025

Amanda Cleary Eastep

The western North Carolina floodwaters had receded enough for my husband to make it to the town nearest our “holler.” There, he gathered with others at the local radio station, all desperate for any Wi-Fi connection that might enable them to get word to family and friends that they were alive and safe. Like every other town and remote community, our rural mountain area had lost power and cell service following the catastrophic flooding caused by Hurricane Helene at the end of this September. 

I was traveling when the storm hit. Before I had left home, I cautioned my husband to “fill a bucket for flushing,” just in case. Power outages are not uncommon in the mountains; historic floods are. Three days of rain dumped up to thirty inches of water in some places. Rivers rose to impossible heights and carried things rivers aren’t meant to carry—cars crumpled like colored paper and the houses of neighbors yonder. The rushing water turned towering pines and old oaks into battering rams and hillsides into landslides. It carried things and buried things. Roads were pulverized. Wells and water lines, even if they could have functioned, were contaminated.

After the rain ended, three days passed before my husband and I were able to contact each other. In order to request a wellness check by the Red Cross, I had to officially report him “missing.” When I finally heard his voice going in and out on a Facebook Messenger call, I cried. And then I told him how bad things were. Because he was cut off physically and virtually, he had no idea of the widespread devastation. I had only begun to see it, as news made its way out of Asheville fifty minutes south of us and family and friends clambered to our smalltown Facebook groups with pleas for updates on family members who lived on “this” or “that” branch (road).

“Has anyone heard from the Knowles on Parson?”

“Is Highway 19 open? I heard the bridge washed out.” 

“Can someone check on my grandmother? She lives alone and is on oxygen.”

Although my husband couldn’t hear much of what I said during that call, I could hear him—and what he said near the end of our conversation will always stay with me.

“I am so full of joy.” 

Even with our recently refinished basement ruined by water, trees down across the washed-out driveway, and no electricity, water, or source of gasoline, there was joy. And this was why . . . 

All the neighbors up and down our branch—maybe twenty households in all–came out to check on each other. They came with shovels and buckets, bobcats and chainsaws. My husband told me he’d now met everyone we hadn’t in the three years we’ve lived here. Everyone was checking on the welfare of the other. Over the next week, water, food that would spoil, and transportation were shared. Suddenly, no one was a stranger anymore.

Our homes were without power for twenty-three days; other areas endured longer outages. Linemen from New York eventually made it to our homes to repair snapped poles and downed wires. (As of December 8, local internet has not been restored, and the city of Asheville has only had drinkable water for the past two weeks.) Neighbors continued to help neighbors. Churches, somehow, served three meals a day to residents and volunteers. Even those who had lost the most spent some of their time sorting and delivering donations that began to arrive once routes were clear and deemed safe. Friends, friends of friends, and co-workers—some we’d never even met—sent us money to help with our own repairs and to pass along as we felt best to help our communities. My stepson came to help his father dismantle our now ruined remodel. Two friends drove nearly three hours to fill their truck with our basement debris and haul it away.

As the days and weeks stretched out before all of us now living in what felt (and still feels) like a post-apocalyptic landscape, hundreds of people poured into our mountain towns. This time, it wasn’t to see the fall colors—the Blue Ridge Parkway was closed down—or to enjoy a getaway in Appalachia. They came to help. They brought water and canned goods and clothing; generators and gasoline and chainsaws. Some volunteered with the ever-present organization Samaritan’s Purse. Some came with their church groups; others connected with nonprofits and government agencies. Our roads and parking lots were busy with hulking National Guard vehicles and our normally quiet skies with helicopters flying overhead–first for search and rescue, and then for recovery.

Those in other areas and towns lost far more than we did in our holler—entire homes, livelihoods, and loved ones were swept away by floodwaters. Just yesterday, my husband and I were finally able to drive the couple of miles into our tiny downtown area of Green Mountain. The post office, the church, and the general store—operated by the same family for the past sixty years–are gutted. Small structures that once stood near the river are gone. The wide concrete bridge is busted in two pieces and lies on a newly carved out, rocky bank. The trees are gone.

But stories of kindness abound. “Hello” and “how are you?” are delivered with an expectation of an honest and possibly long answer. And we take time to listen. God has shown my husband and me opportunities to extend aid—and kindness—to people we wouldn’t have ever met under normal circumstances. 

Yes, there are stories that aren’t so happy. There are people who haven’t been good or kind, people who have taken advantage of the tragedy. But the kindness of neighbors and strangers, of Christians and those we hope have seen Christ in us, has risen far above the record-breaking crests [1] of our rivers—a flood of grace and goodness that will help us rebuild, that will enable us to see past the piles of debris and ruin and encounter joy.



[1] https://climate.ncsu.edu/blog/2024/09/rapid-reaction-historic-flooding-follows-helene-in-western-nc/



The featured image is courtesy of Julie Jablonski and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating



 

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