Inside Birmingham, Alabama's Boutwell Auditorium, the pitifully weak lighting casts a gloom over an already somber scene of deja vu. Just like in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Boutwell is a shelter filled with victims - this time, of April's horrific tornado outbreak.
Rows of closely spaced cots fill the arena floor with the exception of one corner set up with rows of end-to-end lunchroom tables and metal folding chairs. At the end of one table, two elderly African-American women huddle together, plastic forks in hand as they finish off their styrofoam containers of breakfast foods. As I approach, they stop eating and look up questioningly. Eyes filled with unspeakable pain, these gracious Southern ladies still remember their manners.
"You had any breakfast, darlin'?" one asks.
"I have," I respond, forcing a smile while my heart aches for both of them. "I just wanted to stop by and let you know I'm praying for you and love you," I say. Getting out those few words breaks my resolve and the tears start coursing down my cheeks.
My arms envelop the first woman and I feel her shoulders tremble with emotion as I hold her. I move on to the next one with the same results.
"You lost someone, too, didn't you?" the second lady asks me.
"I did," I whisper, tears clogging my voice. "A friend I've known for many years."
"We all hurtin'," the first woman says. "If they's somethin' lef', maybe it wouldn't hurt so bad; but they ain't," she shakes her head.
I say my goodbyes and cross to a cot where a middle-aged woman sits cross-legged staring trancelike into oblivion. I place my hand on her shoulder and she slowly turns and acknowledges my presence.
"How are you?" I ask. Like the first two women, her eyes are a mixture of pain and hopelessness. I see an unhealthy yellowish tint in her cinnamon skin.
"Don't know," she says. "I been throwin' up blood all mornin', but there ain't nothin' can be done."
"I can call paramedics for you," I offer.
But she shakes her head ever so slightly. "The essential to budget travel is to approach ahead. When it happens to family trips, globetrotting, well-deserved trips and/or going to see new places we have never been before, the fact of expense and budgeting is generally in the back of our minds. Arranging and expending our travel budget correctly is a concern for most families. Minimizing consuming and expenses, while still savoring your vacation to its fullest, is the key to confirmed accomplishment and fiscal obligation. Your pocketbook and family will thank you! The thinking behind saving money while travelling is simple: Even if your personal budget is extremely small, you can still take a break and enjoy life! Simply put, life is just too short to never step out of the door or departing the homestead! Also recalling that while traveling, no matter whether on a finances or not, even the smallest of things can all add op to a large vacation or travel charge!..". "Won't do no good. I's at Cooper Green yesterday and they didn't do nothin' for me."
"I'll see what I can do," I promise. And then I move on to the next victim.
This 30-ish lady gives me a weak smile as I approach. Her long straight hair is thick and raven black and her skin is a coppery brown. Beside her cot a white man is changing the sheets on a cot. Either he has a couple of decades on this lady or he's at least got quite a few miles on her.
"I'm Lydia," she says, "and this is my husband Leroy." Leroy cuts his eyes in my direction, gives the slightest hint of a nod, then continues his bed-making.
"Where were you living?" I ask. With the amount of devastation we'd had all around Birmingham, they could have come from any of a dozen areas.
"Pratt City," she said. "We'd only been in that house for two weeks." Her voice speaks volume about such unfairness.
"Before that, we were homeless for almost a year. We'd just got back on our feet. Had us a 52-inch flat screen TV. When it was over, it was still in the house, rain just a-pourin' down all over it. I bet it don't even play no more."
I listen for a while and then quietly ask if I can pray with her. She nods an okay and I lift up a prayer for her and her husband's peace and recovery. Moving to the back of the room, I spot a voluminous woman in a wheelchair. When I get within 20 feet or so, I can hear her raspy breathing.
"Are you doing alright?" I ask. Stupid question, I know, but all I could think of as an opener.
She looks at me, rightfully so, as if I have three heads, and says, "I just need help. I just need help."
After a couple of minutes of trying to talk with her, I realize her problems aren't limited to physical. Probably dementia or Alzheimers; but we aren't having much of a conversation. During this time, a side door opens and a 30-ish woman moving at the pace of a exhausted snail eventually arrives at the cot nearest the wheelchair.
"This is my auntie," the woman tells me. "Is there a place around here where I can take a shower?"
"I don't know," I respond. "But I'm sure I can find out."
"I'm on my cycle and my clothes is all messed up," the woman continues. "And the water in that bathroom," - she points to the door through which she'd come - "is ice cold."
"Let me see what I can find out," I tell her.
I sprint across the floor and climb the stairs toward the street level concession and ticketing area which has now become a registration and distribution point. A small band of white-coated doctors or, more likely, med students, stand on the landing surveying the arena.
"Excuse me," I interrupt their low-voiced discussion. "That lady over there" - I point to a cot in the first row - "has been vomiting blood all morning."
"Oh, okay," one tall skinny guy answers as all heads swivel in the direction I've indicated.
I clear the stairs and reach the entry room of the building. A police officer at one makeshift lunchroom table desk doesn't glance up as I hustle past. Opposite the officer and facing the glassed-in front of the building, a volunteer at the registration desk looks alert as I walk toward her.
"Hello," I begin. "There's a woman down there," - I nod toward the arena - "who's asking about a shower." I elaborate on the rest of her problem.
"I have no idea," she tells me. And then, looking past me, she calls out to a man in a khaki work uniform. "Are there showers here?"
"Sure," he says. "Follow me."
She signals another volunteer to take command of the station and the three of us troop down the stairs past the lunchroom tables, through a doorway, and down a long hall. As we're exiting the area, I spot the medical group, now convened at a safer distance from any possible patients.
"Here ya' are," the man tells us, shoving open the door to a cramped room with chipped and peeling yellow and blue paint and two small concrete block curtainless shower stalls, the first of which is filled with mop buckets and mops that have long since seen their better days. A cracked porcelain wall-hung sink stands across the way. I check the door. There's no lock. I crank the left handle on the faucet. It's no spa resort, but at least there is hot water.
The man leaves us and the volunteer and I walk back upstairs together. Moving to a row of huge boxes, she shakes open a plastic bag and tosses in a toiletry kit.
"Here," she hands the bag to me. "Look around and get her anything else she needs."
I find a box with towels; another with feminine products. I bag my finds and take them back downstairs.
Admittedly, I didn't do much. I managed to find a way for one tornado victim to get a shower, clean up, and maybe feel a little bit better. I gave out a few hugs. I wish I could have done more. And I intend to.
WHAT CAN YOU DO?
Nearly every church that's survived the tornadoes is working in some capacity to help the victims. Countless government agencies and civil organizations are doing the same. If you haven't yet found a place to offer your services or your donations, check out websites like www.VolunteerMatch.org and www.RedCross.org.
Want to start your own relief effort? There's no end to the needs, so anything you're willing to do would be a huge help. One group I met is collecting the clothes that tornado victims have salvaged from their homes. They bag each family's items in a labeled bag which is then taken home by one of the volunteers, where they're washed and neatly folded. Afterwards, another volunteer delivers the clean clothes to wherever the family is staying. Doing laundry may seem trivial in the big picture, but when you're the one scrounging for a clean shirt for yourself or one of your children, it quickly becomes a very big deal.
The destruction is overwhelming and the recovery period is going to take months and even years. Do what you can, wherever you can, however you can.
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