How losing my mom taught me how to handle disaster relief efforts

I lost my mom unexpectedly when I was 27 and living half-way across the country attending seminary. I had just seen her 10 days before — in fact, even more recently we’d yelled at each other over the phone because neither of us was living up to the expectations of the other. Then one night I got a call from my younger brother — he’d found her unresponsive on the floor and called 911, and it wasn’t looking good.

Fast forward a few days, once the family had been told and the obituary had been published, and we received a massive influx of love and support. People wanting to know how they could help, what they could do, if they could come by, etc.

And in the midst of the shock, in the midst of the grief and loss, in the midst of coming to terms with the fact that the last thing I had said to my mother was something nasty and completely counter to the fact that I loved her with everything I had — I had to try and sort through people’s overwhelming desire to care for me without knowing how to.

For the first few weeks it was like that — babysitting and coddling people’s ambitions of wanting to be helpful and not knowing how to be. It was exhausting. I remember breaking down at one point and yelling at my then boyfriend that instead of taking care of me, they were actually asking me to take care of them. They wanted me to validate their need to feel helpful, they wanted me to tell them exactly what to do because they couldn’t figure it out on their own, and they needed my permission to exist in that state.

And then, a month later when the funeral was over, the family went back to their respective homes, and we were left with a house full of things and unpaid bills and a mom-sized hole in our hearts and lives, there was no one left to help. The floods of offers receded. The well of overflowing support dried. And I was left in solitude with my grief, with real needs which I still couldn’t vocalize well.

A few brave souls remained — those who were closest to me and knew the depths of my soul and carried me along when I couldn’t hold myself up. For them I give thanks every day, even now, almost 3 years later. But the rest were gone, off to save the next suffering soul.

And as I sit here making plans for relief and recovery in the aftermath of Harvey for my own faith community, I find myself thinking back to that time. I realize now that on some level grief and loss are tied together across fields of causation. While I will never know the devastating loss of home and property from Harvey, the cries of blanket statements of help still ring true. And this is what I know to be needed most from those who want to help.

Be Specific: We don’t need your generic offers. We just lost everything — we can’t tell you specifically what we need and when we need it, we can’t even find our own shoelaces or cell phone charger, much less be responsible for your actions and suggestions. Be specific. Ask if you can cook dinner and bring it over, for a specific amount of people, with a specific menu. Ask if you can bring cleaning supplies Tuesday morning at 10. Ask if you can take the kids to a movie and ice cream for the afternoon so the parents can clear the house or go to work. Ask if you can help itemize and log damaged goods and property for 3 hours on Thursday. Ask if you can come pick up dirty clothes and do loads of laundry while others continue the clean up effort. Ask if you can have someone over for a hot meal. Ask if someone needs a place with a clean towel and a hot shower, or a real bed for a night or two. Ask if people need assistance filling out FEMA forms on Saturday morning. Ask if the kids need rides to or from school, or lunch boxes packed each night before bed. Lend tools labeled with scotch tape with your name and phone number. Be specific so that those who are suffering can focus on what matters most.

Be Patient: Need doesn’t make itself known overnight in many cases. We don’t just need your help right now, we need it next week or two weeks from now or 3 weeks from now. Allow those in need to say no now and yes later. Be patient and resilient. And be assured — people all across the coastal bend who are suffering the impacts of Harvey NEED help. You can provide that help. But it can’t all happen right now, right when you feel generous, or right when it is convenient for you. Be willing to let those with the needs be the ones to dictate if and when they accept help. I know it’s tough on your egos, it’s tough on your hearts, it’s tough on your innermost desires to show compassion and love to a hurting and grieving community, but patience is such a key virtue in the service-to-others category. Be patient so that those who need the help can call on it when they need it most.

Be committed. Commit yourselves to the long-haul. The whole world is watching right now, eager to give time and money to the cause. That will soon evaporate. The next big thing will happen, and the world will move on, and those who have lost everything will still be picking up the pieces of their lives — unattended and lost in the fray. That is when we need the most attention. It’s exciting and urgent to help RIGHT NOW, but it’s extremely important to help 6 months from now when the cameras are gone and the urgency is lost. Grief does not end. Loss does not end. And those who suffer the burden of it need people to walk with them when everyone else has forgotten. Additionally, the exhaustion wears away at people. We need rested, caring, energetic people to come in and carry the load when the miles of marathon pounding have us worn and on the verge of collapse. Set an alarm on your calendar for February 15, 2018 to remind yourself to make specific help suggestions to your neighbors, family members, or community. Be committed. Not now. Be committed 6 months from now, a year from now, so that we who are walking this road at all times might be refreshed by those who will walk it with us for only short bursts.

I have never been through a natural disaster of this scale, or of any scale really. Even though I grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast, my hometown usually escaped the worst of the storms. I’ve only ever watched them from afar, devastated and heart-broken for those impacted, and grateful for our own escape from such devastation. But I am still prepared. I am prepared because I know deep and abiding loss, constant and heavy grief, and the burden of those with good hearts and intentions with no tangible way to actualize them. And I am prepared because I have been the person who wants to help and doesn’t know how. I have been on both sides of the cycle. There is no way forward but together; we need everyone on board to rebuild and heal the wounds of our community. But we need to be clear about what is needed. If you’re able to help, be specific, be patient, and be committed. If you need help, we’re here to serve. Courage, y’all, for the journey together.