Wednesday after the storm, Johnny dropped me off at the house of someone we had met just 7 weeks earlier. Her husband, Dusten, their family friend Joey and two guys from our church, Drew and Tom, volunteered to head into the disaster zone and lend aid. Our caravan was three deep with two towing heavily loaded trailers. Armed with a property tax bill, a local fire fighter and some other first responder info we headed west.

We stopped at Costco to fill up the vehicles, generators and donated gas cans. A person in the gas line saw us and asked if we were headed to the mtns. When she learned of our trek she handed Dusten $50 to use to help. God was with us and going to get us through.

We were passed by several convoys of police escorted vehicles. One was from CMPD. Our own people coming to the aid of my people. Once we passed Morganton the sights began to change. Signs of flooding and downed trees littered the view. The heartstrings began to prepare us for what was to come.

We made it to our house without complication. It was a relief but also daunting. Our neighborhood had hired a tree company to cut and haul the massive trees that had come down. I wasn’t oblivious to the terror lurking outside our neighborhood entry.

We set out to unload the trailer and get the word out we are serving 80 hamburgers hot off the grill. Our convoy crew set about emptying the trailer and setting up the new garage store in our one car garage. My little hood already knew we were coming and had gathered to see the trailer unload. I set out on foot to find people in need of a hot prepared meal and conversation. I walked adjoining neighborhoods and streets. If a door was open then I knew someone was home letting light in. So I knocked and invited. I didn’t know a soul I spoke with. I went in homes where people were unable to walk to the door to speak with me. Tragedy doesn’t discriminate. We are all in this together. No one turned me away. Some had just eaten, you see with no power and complete darkness, people go to bed much earlier. We operate with the sun. So eating patterns change. I met a lady at her door. She was eating a banana. I extended the invite and she showed me her banana. I told her if she had already eaten no problem. She laughed and said the one banana was her dinner and she happily accepted the invite. I ran into a man who lives in a nearby shattered trailer park on his bike with a milk crate. His crate was loaded with snack bars and Gatorade. He was riding around offering aid. I met a family of five pulling a wagon of women’s hygiene products. The adults were knocking on doors while the kids rode bikes challenging each other to races along the way. We live along the creek so I saw pickups and cars on the banks of the creek scooping up flushing water. This gives us some sense of dignity while we don’t have running water. I also ran into people looking for their loved ones along my route. They had traveled some distance because their friend had not been heard from. The challenge of no communication is horrific for everyone.

I got home and the grill was fired up. My little hood had already arrived in our driveway beside this grill. I later learned this is what they have been doing for each meal. They go in our home, raise the garage door and roll out the grill. They use my grandmother’s prized red teapot and someone else’s French press to make coffee for 15 and fry up anything they can find.

When I got home, our team had unloaded the massive haul and set up our new garage store. Items were sorted by category. They had created a U shaped aisle utilizing every space available. They even made the aisles wide enough for a walker so my neighbors could safely enter and shop.

There was a shelf display of items too. Johnny’s ladder was set up in A frame. Live edge wood I was given from my glass teachers just last Thursday was used to now display essentials.

As I surveyed the garage shop I saw the faces of YOU! I recalled your full arms coming down my driveway over and over again dropping off your donations. The pile had overflowed my porch, filled the sidewalk and stretched down my driveway. Less than 48 hours from the time of my plea, YOUR donations were set up and ready to be picked up by those in desperate need. Shopping was already in full swing.

Drew, grill meister extraordinaire, was on the task of grilling 80 burgers on our tiny grill. My neighbors were already arriving. They brought their camping chairs and enjoyed the new load of bottled water that your provided.

Recah set up tables for condiments and assisted Drew with cooking. Joey and Dusten had begun distribution and deliveries of heavier things. Tom was delivering water, setting up a generator and was EVERYWHERE doing everything.

Neighbors who had been strangers just an hour prior began to walk down our street. I was in disbelief. Chad, our pastor from House of Mercy, Asheville arrived with a car full of people. Other folks from House of Mercy arrived. Some I had just spent the previous Monday with at small group. Chad brought some houseless friends we met just a few weeks before. He brought women and children from the shelter. He also brought women who had just been released from prison and have been attending our church while in prison through our partnership with the day pass program. Here we were, literally ALL walks of life now forever bonded by a flood. We ARE survivors.

I didn’t hear conversation about the flood. I saw smiles, laughter, hugs between strangers and friends who had not yet had that first post flood hug. I could feel the hugs lasting longer than usual. I felt us hugging tighter, needing to let the connection linger. Nothing was NOT ok. Tears and laughs were heard and no one excused their appearance, their stench or their bad breath. Raw, unfiltered, unmasked humanity flooded my mom’s driveway.

I stood back alone for a moment surveying the scene. I wept. The lady with the half eaten banana saw me. She immediately came and embraced me. She didn’t know the story of this home and knew nothing about me but she knew what to do.

Mom’s best friend Ruth arrived. That hug and our tears now flowed freely. The relief of safety, the security in her arms and the look in her eyes fed my soul. She knew my history, she knew the pain I had endured the last few years and the pain we all now endured. She also knew we will come out stronger and more connected than ever.

One of our new friends we met while serving 12 Baskets Cafe: a program of Asheville Poverty Initiative brought his guitar and played. People joined in singing. Another couple picked up the guitar and his wife sang “Stand by Me”. Never had I experienced the song the way I did now. The emotion in her closed eyes and swaying body was palpable. Many joined in with her and we clapped with sincere joy and gratitude.

I asked Pastor Chad to lead us in prayer. I met Chad less than 7 weeks ago on a mission trip to Asheville through our home home church Lake Forest Church-Huntersville. While on that trip I kept feeling like God was doing something so much bigger in my life than those 4 days but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I kept telling Johnny that something but we happening. He felt it too and also couldn’t identify it.

Every Sunday we were in Black Mtn we were now attending House of Mercy and called it our home church. We looked forward to arriving early and catching up with people. We now listened to church services we missed to keep up with the message series. Just the previous Monday, House of Mercy friends Vickie and Jimmy had picked us up and taken us to Jane’s house for small group. Johnny and I are introverts at heart but we play well as extroverts. Here we were WANTING to be among people.

Ok squirrel over. Back to Wednesday night. Darkness was

beginning and Buncombe county is under a 7:30 pm curfew. Total darkness is unsafe because you can’t see cavernous holes in the streets. Our new friends had full bellies, bags and bags of food and smiles on their faces. We shared more hugs and theybegan to walk home and load their cars.

That night our driveway was a haven from the storm. A place of camaraderie, encouragement, essential supplies and HOPE! The six of us sat in the quiet, cool evening and processed our experiences. There were no words. We recognized we are forever changed.

A few weeks ago Chad said “The fruit of our lives is experienced in connection with others”. Spot on man, spot on.

YOU made this happen. YOU showed up for my people. YOU brought them hope, compassion and virtual hugs they felt. We know we will be ok. It will take time, hard work and patience. You have our backs, you hold our hearts in yours and hold us tightly when we need it. We are not alone and you won’t forget us. We ARE “Brave in All Things” and we ARE Black Mountain STRONG!!!

© Gatewood Campbell, October 2024

I’m resting my clean body and clean hair on a clean pillow. My fingernails no longer have dirt it them. I have on clean clothes. Though the lights are off in our room, there is light from clocks, street lights and charging devices. These will help me to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I will be able to use toilet paper and flush it without panic if I don’t place the toilet paper in the trashcan. I will wash my hands with warm water and soap and easily find my way back to bed. A cold glass of water sits beside should I need a swallow during the night. In the morning I will think nothing of tossing the remaining water in the sink. I’ll wash my hands and face in warm water and go downstairs for hot coffee with about a 60 second wait. I will scroll my phone for news and updates, play wordle and begin my day.

These are luxuries. This is not the real life for my western N.C. friends. My neighborhood is 30 homes, 90% retired, many of whom are disabled. They will pull out the flattop grill we left for them and light it up. They will fill my grandmothers tea kettle with potable water, hopefully and corral a French press, hopefully. At this point there will be no eggs or meat to grill. All food had to be cooked or eaten today. They will perhaps grill toast with butter we now find fit to eat even sitting on the counter. They will arrive each with their own plate, cup and utensil. Someone will make coffee nonstop for hours and they will Oooo and ahhhhh about the joy of simple things.

Then the work begins. They will go door to door checking on the homebound. Who needs water? Who needs buckets brought from the creek to flush your toilet? Who needs water from our hot tub (that we refilled on Wednesday and forgot to treat with chemicals) that is now the water we use to wash dishes and our faces? Someone will try to walk to town to get an update at town hall. They will come home and make lists, place them in ziplock bags and staple them to the the 3 mailbox stations for each neighborhood. They will begin to prepare for the forecasted rain. This all happens before 11.

Life has stopped. We don’t know dates or times. Sirens are 24 hours a day. It’s relentless. Helicopters invade our sky. Chainsaws sound nonstop and we run outside in hopes it’s in our neighborhood. Our neighborhood is all private roads. We will not be subject to any help from the town. Good Samaritans have stopped in with chainsaws to allow passage out. Downed power lines and sketchy bridges keep us trapped. Johnny and I have e-bikes we could recharge on his truck and with a full tank of gas we made it through town to get information and make phone calls to loved ones for our neighbors. The closest signal we could get was 2 miles from home.

Let me back up. We awoke around 6 Friday morning without power. The storm was loud and pounding but we didn’t know where we were in the storm. We could not get updates. Around 8:30 we lost internet across cell lines. I called a friend and got her to look at radar and let me know an ETA on rain ending. That was the last call I was able to make. By 9:30 am ALL cell signal was completely lost. The rain was increasing. We could see the creek rising. Johnny stepped outside under the porch and was soaked from head to toe after 30 seconds.

Around 11 we felt like we could go out and survey the neighborhood. We began to feel the weight of the destruction yet we had NO clue. The creek had turned into a river greater than 50 yards wide. The noise of water heaters, propane tanks, bikes, grills, construction supplies and yard equipment banging on the rails of our bridge to Black Mountain was defeaning. We saw two neighbors with trees on their homes and knew they were taking on water.

I walked around screaming “oh my gosh”! Johnny told me to stop doing that because it sounded desperate. Then we realized we were desperate. He quit telling me to stop. NOONE had prepared for this. NOONE.

I desperately needed to know the bridge in Robert Lake Park that’s dedicated to my mom was safe. The army corp of engineers had built it so I was confident but I knew this was catastrophic. Our neighborhood entry was blocked by two massive trees. We had been able to crawl in, over and under them to walk out but there was no getting a bike out. I remembered there was a back exit off our road, too small for a vehicle but big enough to walk. We grabbed our bikes and headed to Montreat. We got to the gate and were stopped by the police. The advised us not to enter. My rule follower self wanted to respect it but my heart said no. We stopped people coming out on bikes. We asked about the bridges at the park and he told us they were gone. Those words hit me and I crumbled into Johnny’s arms. I screamed that I had to go see. The police turned away and left us and we went on.

Destruction was 360 degrees. Bridges to entire side of the mountain had sustained incredible damage. We crossed rocks, not gravel, rocks that had been washed into the road. We passed students carrying backpacks walking to town and constantly checking their phones to see if they had signal, no doubt to call parents.

We crested the hill before the park and I spotted mom’s bridge. It was there! Standing! With both railings and her plaque unharmed. The other bridges were gone, missing one or both railings. But there was Wookie. Standing tall, as if she was barking orders and obscenities and saying “Helene will not take me”.

After some time of relishing her beauty I realized we had phone service on Johnny’s carrier but not mine. We first called Johnny’s mom and our kids. Next call was to one of my best friends. She was with me last week and took the photography track. She made time to take some incredible pictures of mom’s bridge. Tears fell across her cheeks. Her kids who also love this place ran to see the pics. They were speechless. We virtually hugged and kissed and promised to communicate more as possible. Texts were not possible but we established that when able we could call and receive calls.

This is all I have the energy to share tonight. I used to have a blog. Maybe I’ll reactivate and use it to share. This has been therapeutic and I hope adds to your ability to understand some of what we are experiencing. We are traumatized. We don’t want to hear people say you will rebuild. Our neighbors and our towns have nothing left to start from. The land is gone. We need you to listen. Don’t say we understand. You don’t. You can’t. Just love us. Ask where to take things that actually get to us! I’m working on getting an enclosed trailer and when we do Johnny and I will return Sunday and hope to have it full of supplies for my immediate neighborhood and those along our road. Access to help is so hard when power lines are down and bridges are out.

This picture was taken by my friend, Amber Kovacs. She was in Montreat just days before the hurricane participating in the photography class during Fall Craft Week. We hold this photo as proof of what was, and know that it will be again, sometime.

© Gatewood Campbell, October 2024

I started this blog in 2011, a very long time ago. Many lifetimes ago, in fact. It was the way I dealt with Epilepsy. As life does, it’s taken more expected and unexpected turns. I’ve just lived through Hurricane Helene. I took to Facebook, first to let folks know Johnny and I were safe, then to share the pictures. I immediately used Facebook to launch a massive donation drive to assist my immediate neighbors, most of whom are retired. As that project took on a life of its own I used Facebook to share what I was experiencing. It was therapeutic and, based on your comments, it seemed helpful for those in Helene’s path and those not in her path, but in a position to help.

I decided it was time to open up the blog again and use it to chronicle my experience with Helene. When I logged back into my website I clicked on my first post. So much of what I wrote then is still true. I need not explain anymore. I’ll just share those words with you once again and hope that someday, someone who reads the words from my heart will also find healing,

“As I get older, I find myself looking back and thinking about the path my life has taken. About a year ago I began writing down my thoughts, the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper. Then I went electronic and started typing my thoughts into one long document. I decided to get brave, and I posted one of my writings on Facebook. I was amazed by the responses I had. People were moved by my story. This seemed odd to me. People thought I had something unique to share. Sure, I’ve had some unfortunate circumstances, but you deal with it. That’s just what you do. My family always says you have to pull up your big girl panties and move on. So that’s what I did. I dealt with it and moved on. When friends read my posts they were surprised because they didn’t know some of the difficulties I had faced. They didn’t know the challenges…because I didn’t let people see that. I didn’t let people into my world. I dealt with it, leaning on the love of God and the love and devotion of my family to see me through. He has, and they did. Now it feels like it’s time to share a part of me with you. I don’t know if anyone will learn from what I write, but from the few pieces I have shared, I’ve learned more about myself. I’ve healed  wounds that I thought were permanent scabs. So I’m braving the electronic era and starting my own blog.

This blog, Embracing Change…Accepting a brain injury, living with epilepsy and learning to thrive in my own skin; this is my story, how my life changed drastically and how I learned to make the best of it, appreciate each day and make it count. It’s my story from the sandwich generation, sandwiched between my children, my Mother and my Grandmother. It’s my story of growing, sharing and caring with those that I love. This is my story of how my greatest pain unleashed my greatest gifts. I’m thankful for the gift of sharing and for the gift of those that will take the time to read my story.

© Gatewood Campbell, October 2024