Elizabeth P's Sermon (St. Anselm's)

I suppose you could say that I’m a veteran of these mission trips now, having journeyed on three separate occasions to do God’s work, and I can definitely say that the phrase ‘third time’s the charm’ applies in this case. Our whole group knit together into one body that laughed and cried and listened. Throughout the trip, it really didn’t matter that there were a few of us who were feeling down at the end of the day, because there was always someone around to lift us back up again. And it was an extremely emotional trip, at times very trying, but I know I am much stronger for having witnessed both the destruction of Hurricane Katrina and the reactions of its victims to our help.

It was truly heartwarming to see the faces of those we helped, some of whose houses had been ruthlessly toyed with by insurance companies, or overlooked by FEMA. One such house hadn’t been glanced at by a volunteer since the storm hit nearly a year before. It was the first house we worked on, and had been protected by a mere four feet of brick wall on the coast side. The couple who lived there was older, and the man had been having back problems, but there he was, out there with us in the sweltering heat, telling us stories and gently directing us as to where all the debris could go. His name was Robert James, but he insisted on being called RJ, and his wife, a talkative French woman with a definitive accent, was bubbling over with goodwill and gratitude. We were still adjusting to the heat, and moving bricks in that weather was no laughing matter. The sweat and dirt were layered on us before we’d been at the site even an hour, but I, not wanting to appear idle when all my buddies were slaving away under the heat, kept at it, and after awhile someone noticed my flushed face. That someone happened to be RJ, and as he led us all away from the formidable pile of bricks to take a water break, he asked me how old I was. He seemed really surprised when I told him, and he kept an eye on me for the rest of the time we were there, making sure I didn’t keel over. I didn’t, but it really struck me that we were all out there to care for and help each other—the God Squad wasn’t just brute labor to these people, but friends to be loved and cared for.

It encouraged me greatly to see that both of them were out there with us, really wanting our help. They couldn’t do it alone, but they had been doing their best for months before we arrived. Volunteers and victims were in this together, picking up and putting lives back together.

When I sat back to think about what we had accomplished as a group in the five days we worked, I knew that most of what we had done couldn’t be seen, if one was to travel to Biloxi and inspect the houses. We had painted rooms and moved and bricks and heard stories, but most of the change will stay locked up in our hearts, and in the hearts of those we helped, because now they have hope, and we have newfound love and friendship. I was wishing the entire time we were there that we could have done more, could have stayed longer, because these people are going to need help for years to come. All that aside, I am so indescribably glad that I was able to go in the first place, and give the gift of my hands to RJ and all of the others who are forever linked to ours.

Down there in Mississippi, we were all doing the work that we felt God had called us to do, but you don’t go have to go as far as we did to find this kind of spiritual fulfillment. There’s bound to be a calling for all of you, even just down your street. Take the time to look around, every once in a while. Regardless of age, all of us can be of help to each other, and reach out our hands to make a difference.