"Y'all from out of town?" she asked.
"Oh, yes Ma'am," I replied. "We're from South Carolina. We're here with a group of people from different Episcopal churches who are trying to help out a little bit with the tornado relief effort."
She stopped what she was doing and looked me fully in the eye.
"Thank you," she said quietly before resuming her work.
I felt like a complete fraud.
It was the end of the first day, and I hadn't done very well. We were trying to remove debris from the yard of a man named Ricky, who, along with several friends, had ridden out the storm in an improvised shelter and had emerged to find everything he had owned almost completely demolished. I had tried my best, but I was obviously deluding myself about how fit I was (or, in my case, wasn't), and by noon I had taken three breaks and was staggering. I gave up and came back to the little church where we were staying for the afternoon.
It got worse.
People started to come back from the work site and came into my room to make sure I was okay.
"I'm fine," I insisted, embarrassed and feeling useless. "I just got a little bit too hot."
Dr. Jakubcheck looked at me and suggested I drink some dilute orange juice. I would rather have had a coke. But he brought me a glass anyway, and I sipped on it grudgingly. I was astonished, and, to be honest, more than a little miffed at how much better it made me feel.
That night, during worship, we prayed for the people we had encountered that day. "Is this it, God?" I asked. "Is this the reason you want me here? I may be a pathetic weakling, but at least I can pray. Please don't let me be an impediment to your work."
On Tuesday, I resolved to do better. I said I would work a little bit and rest a little bit, and come back at noon. I also took a bottle of water with me to drink from the beginning, a little precaution which, if I had exercised it the day before, would probably have made all the difference.
We were working in a subdivision on a house that had been demolished, moving the debris to the edge of the road from the house location so that it could be picked up and removed. The teenagers were amazing, breaking up debris and moving rocks and timbers. I know, because I could see them from where I was sitting down gasping, trying to catch my breath.
We found so many personal items. There were plates from a little girl's tea set. I picked up Christmas ornament and Halloween bags, half of a teddy bear and part of a sink. "There was a family living here," I thought. "I wonder where these children are now?" And I began to pray.
Then it happened. On one of my frequent trips back to the car, I passed a baseball in the middle of some tall grass. Next to it, a purple thistle was blooming, and a butterfly was resting on the flower. I stopped for a moment to study it, seeing the devastated house behind it, hearing the sound of chainsaws and sledgehammers and the dragging sound of what had been an oriental rug that was loaded with trash and being pulled down the hill.
And I knew why I was there. I was there because grace abides, and God's mercy is new every morning. I was there because I didn't have answers, but God calls us to be present, and to do what we can, whatever we can, to be with those who are suffering. I can't do everything. But I can do something. And if all I have to offer is the Widow's Mite, then that is what God requires me to give. And by His grace, that is enough.
Debbie Rutledge
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