After 13 hours on the road, we finally turned off the highway into the city. As our charter bus coasted down the exit ramp, we passed a building that stretched high into the clear sky and was littered with debris. The windows were gone, and the building was a dirty gray color . The edges were torn and jagged, like a piece of paper left out in the rain and then brought inside to dry. As the bus continued into the city, I twisted around my seat and watched it until it slipped behind other buildings, wondering at this decaying skeleton of a building.

During my week in New Orleans, I would see much more evidence of Katrina’s destruction. In fact, it was only because of this destruction that we were there in the first place. My church’s youth group, along with thousands of others across the country, drove to New Orleans to participate in a mission trip of sorts for the city. During the day, we traveled by bus throughout the city and worked with the people of New Orleans as they steadily rebuilt their city.

That particular day, we had been assigned to a small corner of the city to work. We were handed sloshing buckets of blue paint and told to paint recycle bins.

At first, we complained about the heat as we worked. This seemingly simple task soon became one of stiff movements and groans. The sun beat down mercilessly on our shoulders as we dragged dripping brushes over unyielding plastic.

As the day progressed, we were all thinking wistfully of our cool hotel room. Eventually we lapsed into a silence as thick as the humid air that clung to our orange t-shirts. In the middle of a fantasy about my comfortable, air conditioned bedroom, Korrene, who lived in New Orleans and was working with us for the week, nudged me with her elbow to get my attention. I frowned and turned around, irritated that my daydreams had been interrupted, when she raised her finger to her lips. She dipped her thick brush into her paint can and pushed her glasses up her nose with the other hand. She squinted, tilting her head to adjust her aim, and arced her brush through the air, splattering  bright paint across the backs of the people working in front of us.

There was a moment of stunned quiet – like that stifling silence before storms. The girl at the end of the line turned around, hands on her hips, scowling, and Korrene burst out laughing. The tension slid off of everyone else shoulders at the sound of her laughter, and when we went back to work, we shared a new appreciation of the people around us and the strength it took them to go through with daily life with a smile.

Our final day in the city, we walked beside the river as the sun peaked across the bank. We stopped at Cafe Du Monde and ate beignets on wrought iron benches facing the Mississippi. After lickng sugar off my fingers, I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of the sun on my face. Beside me, Korrene said, “We should do this more often.“ A smile curved across my face.

A few months ago, I had the opportunity to sign up for another mission trip. I thought back to New Orleans.
This summer I will be spending a week and a half in Belize.