Rising Waters

Our community is in the midst of the worst recorded flood. Ever. And the past week has been unbelievably exhausting, overwhelming, crushing and sometimes, thankfully, very, very inspiring.

We officially evacuated our home Friday afternoon, moving into my lovely in-laws' home. At the time, it was a volunteer evacuation, but by Friday night it was mandatory for our entire neighborhood. With the water levels reaching just a foot or so from the tops of carefully - and quickly - constructed dikes, the city couldn't risk so many families toughing it out in an area that could go under.

Our family is safe and as of this morning, our house was safe as well, with the sump pump working continuously, but keeping our basement dry. In addition to the scare of river water, a very real concern at this point is the basement filling with sewer backup. I don't think I need to explain how nasty that would be.

Both of us spent the week balancing a few hours a work (I was reporting on flood protection efforts for a local college) and then rushing out to sandbagging site to frantically protect homes along the river. It was during these moments - which occurred in either the rain or snowstorms - that I really began to understand why I live in this area of the country. It's certainly not for the weather or natural disasters.

It is for the people.

I passed sandbags next to a high school girl who came out when her classes were canceled. She worked several days in a row, entire days. Her arms were aching and I could tell by the grimace on her face each time she heaved a 40-pound bag that she was exhausted, but she refused to take a break.

I filled sandbags with a college girl who was being evacuated from her school a few hours later, but thought nothing of tying sandbags in the cold (about 7 degrees) until her dad showed up to take her back home.

I loaded pickup trucks with bags at community bagging sites. Without directions or instructions, people simply walked up to the site and started working. They shoveled, held bags, opened bags, moved for sand trucks, passed bags and filled trucks with speed, determination and compassion. They simply helped one another without question, with every last ounce of energy they had.

I checked in volunteers next to a college residence hall director who threw bags all day before helping register volunteers until midnight. Then, he was headed back outside in the dark and freezing temps to build more dikes.

I walked home one day past a chain of 200 volunteers building up the dike a block from my house, throwing on bag after bag to protect our home and those around us from the rising waters. 200 people.

I sobbed in Jason's arms as we walked through the yard of a college professor's home that was lost to the river. I'd been there four days earlier, talking to him about the students who had selflessly built up his dike. I'd talked to him 24-hours earlier, when he asked if I could find some students to watch his sump pump. And now, when I went to his house to see if he was still there, my heart ached as I pictured him and his wife leaving their home behind during the evacuation. They'd lived there 47 years.

I'm scared for our community. I'm heartbroken for those who have already lost homes. I'm worried about our own home. But I'm fiercely proud of my community and honored to be a part of it.