Hospitality, Holy Water, and Other Flooding Thoughts

Thursday, September 12, 2013, 26 hours since the first puddle.
Tipi Loschi house

I remember how this started. It was a small drizzle, harmless. This crept up on us, soundlessly, as though Thor took no part in its design. Then drizzle became flood.

I'm not entirely sure how this happened, but somehow I've found myself in a house I'd never noticed with people I've only just met, and nowhere else to go, and no way to get there, even if I did. 

The place I've come to call home, my apartment here in Boulder, my haven after a year of displacement, was invaded by millions of raindrops as aimless as I am, just trying to find where they're meant to go.

I am not alone in this. In either, really. I am not the only person sleeping on a floor I've only just set foot on. Nor am I the only one searching to find a home, a niche, a destiny, even just a destination.

I've been drifting through this process. I don't know what the appropriate course of action would be. Natural disasters are things that happen to other people, not to me. I'd not been touched by the chilling fingers of tragedy without a few layers of "someones" I may or may not know, not without layers of distance keeping me safely within my comfortable existence, virgin to the experience of first-hand devastation. 

I still don't really feel devastated. I'm used to couch surfing, and it's nice to have company. And the company I'm in, it's quite nice.

It started with the girls, Filiae Dei, the group my roommate found while converting to Catholicism. These girls, their hospitality is overwhelming. A hot shower, a dry bed, a few good meals... these simple necessities otherwise out of my reach were given to me with a concerned smile and a sweet, understood promise that nothing was expected in return. They just want to help, and I will never forget my gratitude for the solace they folded into the blankets they handed me.

Their house was safe. It was sturdy, spacious, and untouched by the overwhelming amounts of water careening through the streets of Boulder. 

Until about dinnertime today, just as the roads became treacherous to navigate and the sun had laid to rest the joy of the day.

The games we played, the stories we told, the great sense of relief after a night of blind purpose, the sun that shined today was somehow brighter from behind the clouds, because we were safe, we were clean, we were dry, and the problems of my apartment were in someone else's hands... All was well.

It was a bubble, a small flaw in the otherwise placid ceiling, a tell-tale sign of our dream's end.

The bubble, we knew, was the tip of the iceberg. The sanctuary of 15 people had been breached. Water was pooling above the living room, anxious to do to this haven as its sisters had done to mine the night before: slowly creep into the comfort we had found.

People react in different ways to almost everything, this I've learned. Danger is part of everything. Some enforce their brow and sternly divulge a plan. Some suggest ideas riddled with fear. Others broaden their shoulders against the brow enforcers. Some weep, some pray, but then there are those who watch and listen, back against the wall, leaning as much on it as their faith in the future to stave off the memories of ceaselessly shuttling water from the floor to the sink, fighting the most losing of battles. Leaning on their resolve to never have to fight a losing battle again. 

The plan was decided, to brave the river-like streets and find a new refuge. 

Packing was simple, I hadn't had time to unpack, really. I looked to the prayer group, and was drawn by their anchored souls. My determination paled in comparison of their faith. While the house bustled in upheaval, I sat on the floor, listening to the entire rosary, 4 tear-choked voices led by Micah's strong faith. 

The trucks came and were loaded in the standard fashion, women first. Few by few, we climbed into the cabs of the lifted trucks, and by chance I wound up in the pick-up bedecked in camouflage and draped with an American flag.

My driver, Colby, embodied a different kind of faith. His was a faith in freedom, the kind that only the country-blastin', flood-bravin', red-blooded American can know. His confidence fording the 3 and 4 foot currents in the streets must have come from those deep roots of liberty that beat his blood racing through his veins.

I'm not sure where those truck boys wound up (Colby's basement had flooded, I don't know if he had anywhere to go), but more than anything I hope they're safe. I hope their faith didn't misguide those souls who believe in the land of the free, and would risk their lives to fight disaster in the homes of the brave. 

When we got to the new place, Tipi Loschi, the home of the enforced-brow, we made new friends, our refugee group growing with every passing hour. 

We sat down to watch a movie of desert tales and drank cups of tea. Some started storing as much water as we could. Some made calls to family. Some had to look away from the screen, could only look at the walls below the windows, waiting to see the silvery, creeping line of displacement making its way into this new haven. Some fought memories of the last time an evening was spent watching a movie, at home before all of this started, when the rain was nothing to fear. 

Now I'm sitting by the bathroom door, listening to the laughter and pop music emanating from the main room, charging my phone before they cut our power. We have stored as much water as we can before they shut that off too.

I can hear everyone speaking around me. I hear hospitality colliding with convicted morals as boys and girls alike try to find a place to sleep. The tears of the girl so concerned for her image that she is sobbing at the thought of sharing a town home with boys tonight. 

These boys, who sent us in the trucks first, to save us before the roof collapsed, I trust them. These good Catholic boys who share the same morals... she would cast them out into the rain, through the doors they opened for us, to walk to a new home in the pouring, relentless, perpetual rain.

I hear friends consoling each other, I hear the awkward silence of those who have set amusement aside for the sake of deep emotions brought on by the storm. I hear the smiles on the faces of those who cling to amusement for sanity. I hear my own thoughts fighting to make me worry, to make me dwell on the loss, the absent security, the unknown events that are barreling towards us like and with the wall of water down Boulder Canyon. 

Today, tomorrow, yesterday... All of a sudden I've lost touch with time. I'm floating through on heavy breaths and unsure steps toward what I hope is the right future.

At this point, I know very little but this: when it was almost time to give in, when panic was imminent, what kept it at bay was the faith I could see, that reminded me of the security of childhood when I knew I believed in what Christianity stands for.

And tomorrow is a new day, full of new battles, and I go towards it, armed with nothing but hope.