Notes from a Soggy Small Town

It happened so fast. We had no idea on Saturday morning, June 22, that the water was blocking off roads. My husband Dean and I had to go to a family graveside service in Titonka, and we left with the clothes on our backs at 8:00 a.m. 

In my town of Spencer (population, 11,000) we get flood watches and warnings every spring. We don’t pay much attention to them. Unless there is a drought—which we have seen for a few years now—the river routinely overflows its banks around the bridge just south of downtown. The levees that were built after a flood many decades ago always keep the south part of town safe.

Nobody could have predicted the volume and speed of the water heading downstream toward us. The town leaders had been warned the night before, but it was far worse than anticipated. There was just so much rain northwest of us, and the ground had been saturated in the weeks prior to our disaster. The waters rose to a historic level within minutes. 

It became apparent by the time we found an escape route that we would not be able to return home that day. We were able to stay overnight with another brother and his wife in Algona, 60 miles from home. As it happened, I was scheduled to preach there on Sunday, so I was able to fulfill my obligation. 

Before we headed home, we filled the pickup with equipment and groceries. A shop vac was included, a gift from one of the churches I visited.  

I grew nervous as we approached Spencer, wondering what awaited us. We found a route into town. At first we drove on dry streets and neighborhoods that were completely normal. But then as we neared our home we began to see hoses running to the streets, pumping water out of basements.

At home, we found a house with no power. Our basement was flooded, with totes and our chest freezer floating in 2½ feet of water. Soggy cardboard. Our unfinished basement is the bottom of four levels, so at least we would not have to deal with soggy carpet or drywall. Not bad!

Once we changed our clothes and assessed the situation, we got busy with a sump pump for the water, coolers for salvaged food, makeshift solutions for hygiene. 

Dean and I were numb for the first few days. We did what was urgent, then what made sense. Many times I felt paralyzed and had to let my mind settle into the task at hand. I didn’t cry until I looked at my children’s old mementos and had to let them go. Tears flowed when learning of friends whose homes are gone. 

It was eerie to stay in our house without power. I had never realized how dark it is, even during the day. The only light we had at night was from our cell phones. Plus, we could also communicate with them. It eased our sense of aloneness.

Having no electricity, I realized how much I distract myself with television or my phone. How much I depend on conveniences like a microwave and restaurants. No water for showers or flush toilets. Streets impassable. How privileged I am to make healthy food and use curated ingredients when so many people have to buy what the Dollar Store offers, if that is even available to them. I am not a saver, but I still have too much stuff. 

In other parts of town there were dozens of people who had thought they had time to gather a few things or make sure their sump pumps were working before evacuating. Instead, they had to be rescued in boats, some from the roofs of homes or an elementary school. It is amazing that there was no more loss of life than one gentleman who drowned when his truck was swept into the river.

Over the next week the stories of scary experiences reached us. People who made it to the hospital in boats. Elderly people found in waist-deep water. So much destruction — businesses and homes destroyed or rendered unusable for the near future. It is a lot to take in.

It is astonishing to see the volunteer groups that swoop in. Churches leaping into action to be shelters and distribution centers. Neighbors helping neighbors, friends in the countryside offering beds and showers. A laundry center set up in the Walmart parking lot. I could go on and on.

A good friend called me in tears six days after the flood, needing to talk. She had been helping at the shelters. At my kitchen table she crumpled in tears at the enormity of both the sadness and the need she saw. She cried over her guilt at having a home untouched while others suffer. I get it. 

I am grateful for having had training in listening to others and to my own body as I go through this. Contemplative practices are serving me well. Still, waves of sadness overwhelm at times. The scale of suffering at our doorstep has opened our eyes to the fragility of so many lives. 

I sense God’s invitation to open my heart and be patient, be gentle with my feelings of confusion and sadness. To let this experience change me and challenge past assumptions. To allow the peace of Christ to reveal itself as I sit in the unknowing. 

Through it all, a deep sense of purpose has emerged. While it can be hard to know what to do, how to help, I always have this: I know how to love. This is what moves me forward and gives me hope each day. God is loving and holding us all, showing us how to be the beautiful agents of love that we were created to be for one another.  

As our son said a few days after the flood, if this must happen to us, it is good to have my faith in humanity restored. As I see it, that is God incarnate here and now.