Hammers and Hearts

On Thursday, November 15 – two and a half weeks after Hurricane Sandy hit – a group of six young adults from St. Stephen's drove from Richmond to New York City to participate in the relief effort. We drove an SUV and a minivan, full of supplies donated by parishioners.

We spent our two days of Hurricane Sandy relief work in Brooklyn. The days were so different from each other. The work of gutting a flood-destroyed basement – pulling up carpet, tearing down drywall, shoveling mud – was so immediately satisfying. It was hard work physically, but the task was obvious. Step 1: put hammer in hand. Step 2: put hammer through wall. Step 3: repeat step 2.

At the end of the day, the results were strikingly visible. What remained of the basement were a bare concrete floor and a skeleton of studs. Outside, a bank of black trash bags – four feet high and running the length of the property – lined the curb and spilled onto the sidewalk. The family could finally hire an electrician, a plumber and an HVAC specialist, and begin the rebuilding. We’d done good work. It was, in Abigail Whorley’s words, “what we are called to do as neighbors.”

The other day was spent doing “what we are called to do as Christians” (again, Abigail’s words). There were no hammers. We came face-to-face and hands-to-hands with people. It wasn’t easy, wanting to help, not quite knowing what to do. Here we are. Now what?

In Coney Island, one block from the water, we brought warm food to a building of subsidized apartments for seniors. Most were first generation immigrants from Russia; a few had come from Latin America. We walked dark, prison-like hallways, pushing a cart. The doors were closed with more locks than I’d seen outside of a locksmith. In the cart, a white Styrofoam box kept the packages of lasagna warm. They looked and smelled like airplane dinners.

On the 14^th floor, we stood for a long while outside the first door, just looking at it, wondering who’d be on the other side, almost afraid to knock. In retrospect, it was the closest I’ve ever come to understanding the mission of the disciples as Jesus gave it to them: “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money – not even an extra tunic.” (Luke 9:3)

Abigail knocked. Though we had many things with us, including extra layers, I felt naked, as if I had absolutely nothing but the eyes in my face. I could almost feel them being probed and questioned by a stranger through the peephole. I wanted a hammer and a soft wall. Was it a coincidence that Jesus put down a hammer to take up his ministry?

Sometimes the door was opened to us. We were greeted by our long-lost Russian great aunt who hugged us, pinched our cheeks, and told us how beautiful we were. We were greeted by a coughing woman who took two lasagnas – one for herself and one for “her friend” – and closed the door quickly. We were greeted by many people who were so hungry to talk to us and who were happy to take some lasagna too.

Sometimes we heard footsteps but the door remained closed. Jesus tells his disciples to prepare for this, to not take it personally, and to not be deterred by it: “Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet.” (Luke 9: 5) Leave it behind and move on. Keep your heart open.

Finally, in another apartment building, we distributed the supplies that we’d brought from Richmond – toilet paper, personal care items, sponges, and cleaning agents. I fought through my rusty Spanish to understand a woman ask if we had anything fun for her grandkids. We did. Thanks to our 4^th/5^th grade Sunday school class, we had Ziploc bags packed with games, crayons, and toys. The woman laughed with joy and told her friend to bring one to her grandkids too. The toy bags ended up being the most popular thing, surpassing even potable water, at least in terms of excitement generated.

Toys. It was a poignant lesson that our call was not to save lives – none were in imminent danger anyhow – but to give and receive God’s love as freely as possible, in material and nonmaterial ways, for the benefit of all. And it was in showing up that we learned why we’d been called to show up.