Helene Reflections I: When The World Went Silent
First of two reflections a year after Helene devastated our area.
Four years ago, a tropical storm named Fred hit our area in the late afternoon, just in time for rush hour chaos. It flooded rivers, closing off major commuter routes. My town, sitting right on the Pigeon River, was especially hard hit. Communities up river were inundated and six people lost their lives.
In September of 2024, the majority of that damage had been repaired. The high school football stadium had been renovated and the local team was finally able to play home games again.
Heavy rains were hitting our area for days prior to the actual arrival of the storm. Throughout the night of September 26 into the morning of September 27, Helene hit.
My wife and I woke that morning to find everything around the house relatively the same. One small pane of a window had blown out and there were branches scattered around the yard. The skies were gray and wind gusts were still occasionally whipping up. Patches of drizzle occurred, or just water washing off of the trees that had been denuded of leaves.
As the skies brightened and the day became sunny, the effects began to how in our household. My wife lost her phone service first. This was followed by the internet going down, my cell service cut out and finally the electric.
My wife had rented a cabin in Pigeon Forge for her and her daughters to have a little get-away starting that day. Two of her daughters flew up to Knoxville from Florida, and her other daughter was driving over from Statesville (near Charlotte, NC). My wife had no way of contacting her daughters to tell them we were okay.
I decided to walk down our street, a steep hill just two blocks from the riverside park. The first sight I saw was the newly re-opened football stadium, once more flooded. Even more heartbreaking were neighbors who lived across from the park sitting outside on the street behind those houses because it was above the high water mark. around them were the belongings they could rescue from the lower levels. Walking down one side street that led to the water, I was stunned by what I didn’t see. A small church that had been across from the park was gone, totally swept away.
With all of our modern communication methods shut down, information was spread through old fashioned methods. First it was neighbor to neighbor, sharing what they knew. But we were desperate for more, particularly my wife who wanted to reach her daughters. We had no clue of the scope of the impact so we both tried driving out to see if we could get cell signals. We couldn’t. I got mine back the next day but my wife went nearly a week without.
And it was on those drives where we reconnected with an information source our grandparents lived on: radio! The local NPR station that covers much of Western North Carolina became the source for all of the multitudes of briefings, warnings about road closures, information about shelters and resource distribution sites.
My wife were among the lucky. We were inconvenienced; we were frightened and concerned. Our house was undamaged, we were not hurt. We camp so we had a camp stove to cook meals and, importantly boil water. Ironically, the results of getting too much water was that no one had water to drink. Parts of Asheville went months without it
That evening we spent in candlelight, safe yet surreal. Our little section of neighborhood had been closed off. The immense scope of what happened was something that would only become apparent in the days and weeks that followed.
Divination Among the Flotsam
I survey the water’s edge--
high water mark traced by peppers
snatched from family farms--
a void left where once stood a church
now swept away by raging torrent,
swept away with lives of innocent;
emptiness lingers in the wake.
Destructive downpour ends;
deluge of tears arises.
They write it off as an act of God,
a portent, an omen, a warning
of HIS merciful wrath,
but I could see no evidence
of heaven’s hand in the hellish surge,
no retribution for the wicked,
no cleansing of our Gomorrah.
In the prayers widely lifted,
the provisions freely shared,
with every neighbor reaching out,
weilding shovels, brooms and boats--
sometimes simply saying “I care”--
it was there I glimpsed
the presence of
holy providence.
Please share any thoughts or experience you have in the comments. Part two will look at the year of recovery and will be published on my regular day of Tuesday.
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