The Hills and the Mountains, the Rivers and Fountains

A bicycle is for riding, not for flood measurement. But the bike parked on a street in Waynesville, North Carolina, on Sunday, September 29, showed by the mud caking its tires and frame just how angry and violent Richland Creek had become as Hurricane Helene roared through western North Carolina two days earlier.

My wife and I saw the bike on our way back to our daughter’s home west of Asheville after attending services at Grace Episcopal Church in Waynesville, one of very few churches in Buncombe and Heyward Counties able to hold services after the storm. The plan had been to attend our daughter’s church, the Cathedral of All Souls in Biltmore Village, in south Asheville. It is a stately building, small for a bishop’s seat, donated to the diocese by the Vanderbilt family in 1896. But when nearly 14 inches of rain fell on Friday, on ground already saturated from a week of steady rainfall, the cathedral was engulfed by the Swannanoa River. Offices and reception hall were inundated, and – up several steps that have stopped previous floods – even the sanctuary filled with mud. 

In Waynesville, which has not experienced major flooding in decades, the streams feeding the Pigeon River exploded beyond their banks and filled the businesses along Depot Street with mud and debris. The shop next to the mud-spattered bicycle was a women’s clothing and antique shop. We talked with the owner as she and her family carried everything from the store to the street. She told us she had reinforced the heavy wooden front doors with lumber crosspieces, but the rampaging waters of Richmond Creek smashed them down and destroyed doors at the back of the store too. “I may be able to salvage five percent of the contents,” she told us, “but my business is finished.”

Countless local news stories have referred to “a disaster of biblical proportions,” although the floods were well short of Noah’s. As of Tuesday, 130 people are known to have died across six states, and hundreds more remain unaccounted for. But for state and local warnings and evacuation orders the toll would have been in the thousands. Several towns of the Florida Gulf Coast were completely flattened by 140 mph winds as Helene came ashore, but thanks to preventive measures only a dozen lost their lives.  

Yet the extent and depth of devastation to the region does indeed beggar the imagination, and perhaps biblical analogies are not such a stretch.  In western Buncombe County we lost both power and cell phone coverage for several days and could not reassure family and friends of our safety. Tens of thousands are still in the dark. From our faucet a small trickle of water emerges — some of the time — unsafe for drinking without boiling. Residents of the central city, with no water at all, learned Monday that repairs may take two months. Emergency water distribution has been delayed while relief trucks wait for highways to be cleared of fallen trees, rocks, and mudslides. Three days after the storm, only one major route, from the south, is open to heavy vehicles.

Every few years the hills and valleys of the Appalachians endure high winds and rivers breaching their banks. This one broke century-old records in nearly every category: rainfall, peak winds, and the enormous breadth of the damage. 

Traditions in this region, drawing on the heritage of explorers and early settlers, value independence and resilience. Remaining Native American communities, dwellers in the hills and valleys for millennia until white settlers’ greed drove most of them out, know all too well both the kindness and the cruelty of our sister Earth.  Yet the swiftness with which a devastating storm arose far away in the Gulf – identified only three days before landfall — and swept north from coast to mountains and on to encompass much of the Midwest, defied all expectations and predictions.

We call such disasters “acts of God,” but their devastation is vastly increased by human activity.  Emissions from fossil fuels burned in vehicles and factories not only raise global temperature in air and water, but also increase the frequency and severity of extreme weather events. Helene was the eighth category 4 or 5 hurricane to hit the United States in the past two years – as many as in the previous 57.  Clearing forests for lumber or development sends heavy rains once detained in the undergrowth straight into rivers. Ocean warming boosts the water-carrying capacity of storms, enabling a storm like Helene to carry unprecedented quantities of rain far inland, toppling century-old trees, and sending houses and cars floating downstream. 

Our days cut off from the outside world, unable to cook food or turn on lights at dark, unable to bathe or to drink water we had not bought or boiled, felt like a journey back to pre-modern times.  (We had a small and noisy generator to keep the refrigerator cold, but it could not power the stove.)  But when cell coverage and electricity returned, we learned how fortunate we were: our services (except water) were restored in days, not weeks, and the two trees downed by wind fell far from the house. Nearby roads were mostly open, and we were able to venture out in search of bottled water (mostly sold out already) and gas for car and generator (“cash only, $20 limit,”) if you were lucky enough to pick an hour-long line where the supply would not run out while you waited your turn.  

Scriptural writers do not tell us how long Noah and Mrs. Noah and their teenagers had to wait for cell phone service. They do tell us over and over again, in many different voices and diverse contexts, that the earth is the Lord’s, and the trees and the hills sing God’s praise. A hymn expands on this imagery:

His law he enforces: the stars in their courses, 
the sun in his orbit obediently shine.
The hills and the mountains, the rivers and fountains, 
the deeps of the ocean proclaim him divine. 
K. K. Davis, “Let All Things Now Living”

When we joined God’s people in worship on Sunday morning, the rector at Grace Episcopal had adapted the readings and hymns to the occasion. The opening collect from the Prayer Book, was a prayer for those suffering from natural disasters. In her sermon she invited us to reflect on the ways in which God’s grace and the work of the Spirit shine through even as we face unprecedented challenges.  

When she arrived at the church, she said, she was able to direct an unhoused man sleeping in the vestibule to a center nearby, where volunteers were providing food, water and transportation to higher ground. She thanked church members who had ventured far into the hills, chainsaws in hand, to check on the safety of parishioners unable to answer their phones or respond to emails. “I’ve written on the whiteboard the names of people we have not been able to contact,” she added: “if you are here please cross off your name.” Members of the parish described the ways their neighbors had reached out to them and shared water, food, tools, and words of encouragement. Someone else noted how, with every traffic light in the region knocked out, drivers yielded the right of way and waved their thanks.  

One member announced, “I have excellent well water, and you are all welcome to come and fill your bottles. Take a shower too if you like.” It was evident that few had regained cell phone access, but one person stepped outside – not once but twice, in the middle of the service – to answer a very loud ringtone. I wondered whether the rector would direct us to page 563 of the Prayer Book to join in a prayer of thanks for restoration of cell service.

In this beautiful country in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains, the majesty and beauty of God are everywhere evident – at least in good weather. When the deeps of the ocean rise up onto the land, when the rivers and fountains become unstoppable torrents of mud and branches and roofs and trees, it is difficult to see the Creator’s hand in so unsettled and disordered an environment. 

Healing will come, for hearts and for communities. As we rebuild what has been lost, let us not lose sight of our responsibilities, our duties of care and compassion, both for siblings who have suffered such great losses and also for the earth that suffers from our exploitation and inattention. We owe our Maker no less.

Note:  I have borrowed a few figures above from Bill McKibben’s recent blog, Third Act  posting on Substack, which I recommend highly: