Brookfield Basics

In September of 2005, three weeks after Katrina had descended upon the Gulf coast, I traveled to Mississippi with a group of fifteen people from our church.

We spent one day in Biloxi - right on the Gulf, and I will never forget the scenes of ruin and devastation, the scope of which is beyond the power of words to convey. Refrigerators in treetops, large commercial fishing vessels laying keel up in the middle of what were once busy streets. Bare cement foundations where houses once rested, as if some giant scythe had descended from the sky and neatly severed the homes from their foundations.

But most of our time was spent in the countrified setting of Pine, Louisiana, where we set up base camp at a local church. We spent eight days traveling form home to home, repairing roofs, hauling garbage, hooking up fresh water supply, and cutting endless amounts of trees and limbs. But more than that we just listened to people tell us of the things they had seen and experienced. Words fail you at such moments, not because you can’t think of anything to say, but because we quickly understood that they didn’t want us to say anything. They just wanted us to listen, and to put a hand on their shoulder while we prayed with them.

The rural, deep South is a different place. Even in late September the heat was oppressive. The outdoors was little more than a giant convection oven; an invisible woolen glove pressed down insistently upon our shoulders. The people of this region carry the imprint of the land; their personas shaped in the twin crucibles of the heat and the soil. They are different than you and I. Most were less educated, but carried that foundational wisdom which results from growing up on the land. And they were tough - tough with a capital “T”. But despite their unspeakable loss, their generosity matched their toughness.

So many images and people are planted in my memory from that week, but none more so than Miss Molly.

Miss Molly was tiny – about 5’ 1”; and I am sure she never looked left to see the “100” on her scale. I guessed her to be about sixty; she was as quiet as she was small. A church mouse would have considered her a raucous neighbor. I met her one morning as we were finishing breakfast and preparing to head out for the day’s work. I approached her and introduced myself, and I can still hear her reply. “My name is Molly - but folks here call me Miss Molly”.

We talked for a bit, and then she screwed up her courage to ask for help – a request as foreign to her nature as we were to that land. “I’ve heard about your group” she said, “and was wondering if y’all could come by and help me. You see – I’m all alone”.

As we spoke I learned that she had children, but they were long grown and gone. I later learned from her Pastor that after years of abuse from an alcoholic husband, she had summoned the courage to divorce him and live alone on their “spread”.

So we scheduled a day later in the week to visit Miss Molly’s, and spent that day cleaning, hauling, and cutting. As we packed up our equipment to leave, she could barely speak. She only murmured, “God Bless you” as she embraced us one by one.

She came back to the church a few days later and sought me out, insisting that she be allowed to express her gratitude to the group. I can see her standing there in that little kitchen, quietly insisting that she be of some service to us. So we agreed, and I and asked her if she could do some laundry for us. “Why heavens sake sure” she said, and the next day we had fresh clothes to pack up for the long drive home.

So why do I write about her after all this time? We recently had our hearts broken with some horrific news. We learned that her estranged husband came back, and in a psychotic, alcohol fueled rage, put three bullets in her heard. She was found in a crumpled little ball, her dried blood caked and hardened on the wooden floor of her kitchen.

Why is it that some people have the hardship of ten lifetimes crammed into one? Why is it that this demure and kindly jewel was mowed down as if she was no more than a steer on the slaughterhouse floor?

I don’t know the answer to that any more than you do.

But some things I do know………

I know that Miss Molly was the REAL DEAL. I know that despite her size she was a giant; a lion whose courage roared louder than mine ever will. All of Katrina’s fury could not quell her spirit. Amidst the greatest devastation I have ever witnessed, she was concerned about doing my laundry.

Why?

I doubt Miss Molly would have given much thought to that question. It’s just who she was. And if I had asked her “why” I suspect she would have said something like, “You got to help people when they need it. It’s just what folks around here do”.

I don’t have a picture of Miss Molly. Somehow in the rush of things I never made the time to get one. That was a big mistake. I would give a lot to have