20 Years Since Hurricane Floyd

Twenty years ago today my parents and I made the long drive back to our home from my mom's friend's house. The drive was long, not because of the distance between the houses, but because we had to find a passable route and a third of our town was under water. The little hope we had was dashed when we finally made it to the top of the hill in our neighborhood and looked out only to see rooftops above the sea it had become.

God was gracious in sparing all of our family members. My grandparents and my uncle also lost their homes, but none of us lost our lives. Local churches donated items like soap, toothpaste, and blankets, that made us feel human. Friends and family members welcomed us into their homes as we tried to get back on our feet. My aunt encouraged me to read the book of Job in the Bible, and I read it over and over again.

I know our family would not be what it is today without that event. I know my faith would not be what it is today. I know my art would not be what it is today without it. My love for all things old and nostalgic is certainly shaped by it, and I wouldn't trade it. But sometimes I wish I could go back there, take my children back, sit under the old magnolia just off the back porch and drink in the sunlight, the smell of honeysuckle and barbecue, and the sound of the birds and Bob Melton's traffic. There are times when I still feel "homeless" in a sense, when I take my kids to Barbecue Park and try to explain to them what the place was like when there was a functioning restaurant, far more houses, and when many of our friends and family lived within walking distance.

As we've moved around the country over the years, I have longed for that feeling of rootedness that I had as a child. I want it for my children and for myself. Rocky Mount in many ways feels like home, and yet the home I had there, the entire neighborhood where four generations of my family lived and worked, is gone. I'm reminded of the song we used to sing in Sunday school that says, "This world is not my home, I'm just passing through."

My painting "Drifter" is meant to capture that feeling, the feeling of somehow still being suspended in the waters with a ghost of what once was. Lyrics to a song I wrote, also called "Drifter" are written into the painting. In them, I attempt to express the restlessness of trying to find "home" on earth, of my struggle to establish "home" as we've moved around the country (the reference to "crossing lines" is state lines). Ultimately, it is about knowing that God knows the way home, and is the one who gives rest to the restless soul.

This ground I'm walking, it ain't home,

I'm talking 'bout the place that I am from;

From the way things look out here,

I'm never going back;

These lines I'm crossing,

They ain't fixed the problem,

And I don't know why I thought,

That the rains wouldn't hunt me down

And wash it all away;

Oh I feel like a drifter,

Oh I feel like a drifter;

These lines I'm singing can't give me the reason

Why I can't find nothing right,

Why I've always got my sights,

On something down the road;

These chords I'm playing won't show me the way

To tell you how it's got to be,

For my mind to be set free,

From where I want to go;

Oh I feel like a drifter,

Oh I feel like a drifter;

The old tree's still there but the limbs are gone,

I try to climb up, I try to hold on,

Home is a heartache, a shadow to chase;

It's a thousand ghosts,

It's wasting away;

Oh I feel like a drifter,

Oh I feel like a drifter;

Up from the shadows You call my name,

I'll follow You if You know the way;

Up from the shadows You call my name,

I'll follow You if You know the way;

'Cause I feel like a drifter,

And I don't want to feel like a drifter