Category: Tribute

Never Let Go

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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So much has been said about the examples of heroism and unconditional love that were exhibited in Houston, Texas both during and in the aftermath of hurricane Harvey. Suddenly the entire world is beginning to understand what it is that we love about this place that is as flat as a pancake, a perfect breeding ground for mosquitos, and has very little in the way of scenic views other than a downtown skyline that is quite beautiful on an autumn day. For years I have tried to explain our town to those who have never been here, and I suppose that I never truly made my point that this city is all about people. The view of who we are has suddenly changed as Houston has become the symbol of what is right with the human spirit.

Sure we have some basic problems with flood control and such, but what the attraction to Houston comes down to, is to be found in the generosity and determination of its citizens. As I travel from place to place I see so many wondrous sights and I find that the people that I encounter are generally welcoming, but nowhere do I feel as accepted for who I am than right here where I live. I always find myself feeling a sense of relief whenever I reenter the city limits. The outpouring of courage and unity and pure love that we have witnessed in the past few weeks has proven my lifetime contention that there are many great places to visit, but Houston is one of the best places to live.

I’d like to think that if any real good comes from this disaster that has so horrifically impacted so many in Houston, it will be the reminder that when all is said and done we are all brothers and sisters aiming for the same comfort and security in life. In the middle of the night during a storm when floodwaters forced a family onto the roof of their house the background of the savior who drove up in a boat to retrieve them from danger mattered not a wit. The reactions that we have when we don’t have time to think are often the purest and most perfect. The reality is that nobody who endured the terrifying days when fifty one inches of rain filled our streets even thought to consider differences. We were all just human beings lashed together in an horrific situation. Our only goal was to survive and to help others to make it to safety with us.

I suppose that politics raged on as usual during those days, but we weren’t even aware of the day or the time much less who was arguing with whom. My neighborhood received a bit more than forty three inches of rain. My only worry was whether or not the drainage system for my street would continue to operate. I silently prayed that my husband would not have another stroke because I suspected that we would not be able to reach the hospital that is only five minutes away if he did. I constantly checked to be certain that my neighbors, family members and friends were okay. When I heard of people who had flood waters entering their homes I was not able to rest until I knew that they had reached a safe and secure refuge. Mine was a scene that was taking place a million times over throughout the area, and we were all hoping for the best for one another. 

I’m not known as a fan of Donald Trump, but I was happy when he came to survey the damage and worked to speed the funding for the recovery of our city. He seemed sincere in his concern, and somehow my animosity toward him didn’t feel appropriate given the situation in which we found ourselves. I am thankful that he seems to understand our plight and that he is willing to do something about it. I have no criticism of his willingness to help.

I have been moved to tears by the outpouring of love from all parts of the country and the world. Our brothers and sisters in Louisiana were some of the first to render aide. The people of New York City understood our pain. Again and again I have heard of volunteers from Israel, Saudi Arabia and countries that may not have heretofore even thought of Houston, Texas. It has been simply amazing to me how wonderful we humans truly are and my faith in mankind has been bolstered.

I watched the Hand in Hand telethon earlier this week and when I saw the genuine concern of the arts community hoping to help us in some way I found myself shedding tears once again. There was Oprah Winfrey manning a telephone line. Tom Hanks and George Clooney and Leo DiCaprio  were there to help the people of my city. Usher and Blake Shelton sang so beautifully. Matthew McConaughey spoke eloquently of the road forward for the citizens of our city. Dennis Quaid wore his Bellaire High School shirt. George Strait led some of the best country artists in a beautiful rendition of Texas. I don’t think that I will ever again see any of the many people who gathered together for this cause without wanting to hug them in thanksgiving. They became as one with my city and they earned the key to my heart.

Beyonce, a native Houstonian, said it best when she noted that we have seen far too much violence and hatred of late. Houston has shown the world that love still exists. Houston has demonstrated that race and politics and social standing don’t matter as much as a willingness to stand toe to toe with one another in an hour of need. In our darkest and most frightening days it was the best of humanity that rose to the occasion. Let us pray that we will not let go of that ideal now that it has come to the fore. We need to join hands all across the world and never again let go.

  

Two Women of Distinction

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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I was a Catholic school girl. I attended Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Elementary School from the second grade all the way through the eighth. The years when I was there were at the height of the Baby Boom, and so we had multiple classes for each grade and the classrooms were always crowded. I knew everyone’s name, but didn’t always have the opportunity to become close friends with all of the students in my grade. Still, there were certain people who stood out as being quite special even as children. Because I felt gawky and shy I found myself longing to be like some of the kids that I considered to be a cut above the rest of us ordinary souls.

In the eighth grade an annual ceremony honoring the Blessed Virgin Mary took place each May. We had the honor of voting for the one girl that we believed to be worthy of such a high distinction. We were instructed to consider our choices carefully, not basing them on popularity, but rather on evidence of impeccable character. Even though I only knew her from afar at that time, I did not hesitate to vote for Linda Daigle, a friendly and generous young lady who always appeared to be thinking of others more than herself. I saw her as the embodiment of the lessons that we were taught in our daily religion classes.

Eventually Linda and I matriculated to the same high school. I still only observed her from from admiration rather than a close relationship, but she only impressed me more and more over the next four years. Somehow she had a way of making people feel so comfortable and she was humble about her talents and her good nature. I continued to believe that she was someone whose character I wanted to emulate. Imagine my surprise when we ended up becoming fast friends once we had moved on to the same university. Over more the than forty years that we have shared a friendship absolutely nothing has changed my original assessment of Linda as a model of compassion and love.

When Linda and I first began to grow close I finally had the pleasure of meeting her mother, Rose Daigle. In Rose I saw the beauty that was the source of Linda’s attractiveness. I also found the same ever present welcoming nature and spirit of boundless hospitality. I loved visiting that house where we often sat at the kitchen table enjoying one of Mrs. Daigle’s special homemade treats. She spoke with a unique accent that is only found in the speech patterns of people born and raised in New Orleans, and I found it to be delightful. I always felt so special just listening to her.

Rose Daigle had grown up in New Orleans but eventually set up a household in Houston, Texas with her husband Bernard. Together they raised four very bright and well mannered children. Rose made her home quite lovely with her skills at sewing, decorating, gardening and cooking. I liked the atmosphere that pervaded her house and thought her to be as wonderful as her daughter Linda.

I’ve been friends with Linda for decades now. We raised our children together and somehow managed to keep in touch even if we only saw each other once a year. When we talk we are able to converse for hours, mostly because Linda is such a good listener and a truly sensitive and concerned person. I suppose that I have told her as much about myself as anyone knows, because I feel as safe with her as I often did when I visited her mother.

Rose Daigle lived quietly in her home long after her children had all left and many years beyond the time when her husband had died. Her life centered on her children, grandchildren, her church and her home. She loved to putter in her yard and always got a kick out of showing her handiwork to visitors and giving them cuttings of her plants. She began to slow down though as her energy waned and her mind became more and more muddled. Her children finally realized that she had reached the point at which she would no longer be able to stay alone at her house. They tried various solutions and ultimately found a secure place for Rose in an assisted living facility.

True to form Rose’s daughter Linda was completely devoted to her mother’s care. She lovingly visited her mother three times every single day, making certain that all of Rose’s needs were met. Linda did all of her mom’s laundry and created little celebrations not just for her parent, but for all of the workers who watched over Rose. She was steadfast in her resolve to make her mother’s twilight years as lovely as possible and she did a yeoman’s job in that regard. Over time Rose thrived because of Linda’s efforts and seemed to become even more beautiful and ageless than she had ever been. I loved seeing photos of the birthdays, the Mardi Gras celebrations, and the Christmas parties that put huge smiles on Rose’s face. She seemed to revel in the love and attention that she received from Linda as well as the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who religiously visited with her

In the past few months Rose’s health began to fail. She was 98 years old and becoming more and more weak. She had stays at the hospital and even received the last rites at one point, but somehow she rallied time and again. Sadly last week she seemed to have lost the old spark that had so defined her life. Linda continued to stand vigil over her mom while still managing to help Houston flood victims by washing mountains of clothing and linens as well as dishes, antiques and kitchen utensils. I suspect that she was just being wonderful Linda the way that her mother had so often showed her how to be, always giving in every regard.

Rose died this past weekend. She became another precious angel in a heaven that is being crowded with the parents of my generation. I suspect that she is free of pain and glowing radiantly like the vision of loveliness that she always was. She’s no doubt reuniting with friends and relatives and maybe even puttering in a perfect garden or creating a culinary delight. She was indeed a very good woman of distinction of the kind that all of us should strive to be. She loved with all of her heart and now she is receiving her just rewards.

My heart is heavy for Linda and her family. No matter the circumstances it is always difficult to lose a parent, especially one as remarkable as Rose Daigle. I pray that Linda will find peace and comfort in her heart and that she will also get some much needed rest. In my estimation Linda is as close to being a living saint as anyone I have ever known. I suppose that I will continue to be in awe of her forevermore.

The Kindness of Strangers

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

135625464_14719069605411nMy cousin and his family were alone, wandering around their yard with dazed expressions on their faces. They had just returned home from an evacuation to the Dallas area because their home had begun to take on water during the heavy rains from hurricane Harvey. When it threatened to reach the electrical outlets they knew that they had to flee. They quickly grabbed a few articles of clothing from upstairs, turned off the power, and drove away while they still had a chance to at least save their cars and their lives. Now they were estimating the damage and attempting to make sense of what had happened. The looks on their faces told their stories without explanation. They were dazed, weary, worried, devastated.

They moved slowly in our direction and hugged us when they saw us walking up the drive way. They had little to say because there were no words to adequately describe what they had encountered. They had lived in this house for forty years. It had been the place where all of their joys and sorrows, ups and downs had played out over a lifetime. They still vividly remembered the feeling of elation they had experienced when they chose the lot and the elevation for their home and watched their dream becoming a reality. They had brought their baby girl to this home and lovingly witnessed her growing into a lovely young woman. The place had never flooded in all of those years, even when there had been heavy rains brought by other storms and hurricanes. They felt safe and sound inside those walls and would not have believed that they would find themselves in such a predicament, but it was Harvey who had come to visit, a beast of a storm that dumped fifty one inches of rain on the city. This time was different, historical, and the creek that usually meandered nearby became a raging river that first filled their yard and then the rooms that were so familiar to them. Now they would have to clean out the waterlogged mess and somehow find the grit and energy to begin again. Still they wondered how they would find the wherewithal to accomplish such a daunting task. They were older now. This was supposed to be a time to retire and enjoy the fruits of their labors, not a moment of beginning the most difficult work of their lives.

We had come to help and to map out a plan of action. We had called on our children and grandchildren to converge on their home the following day. We were determined to set them aright again no matter how challenging that might be, but a tour of the damage shocked us. Somehow we felt defeated before we had even begun. We worried that our crew of mostly older folk was not going to be up to the task, but we said nothing to my cousin. There was no need to further discourage him, so we simply set to work removing debris that blocked the doors and passage ways one item at a time until we had filled one garbage bag after another. It was a start, but the hours felt like days and we left for the night feeling exhausted even though we had hardly made a dent in what needed to be done.

I used to be very a private person. I hid the fact that my family struggled after my father died when I was still a small child. I rarely spoke of my mother’s mental illness, thinking that nobody would want to know about such a thing. Because I was keeping so many emotions locked inside my heart I began to feel anxious and barely able to cope. I finally allowed other people to see my imperfections and my concerns. I found them to be loving and compassionate rather than judgmental. I realized that people are mostly kind, and so I turned to them once again in this moment when I knew that we needed more people to help my cousin to reclaim his home. I put a post on Facebook asking for ideas and my wall was flooded with suggestions and offers of assistance. I gave the task of contacting the many groups to my husband. He had endured a stroke only two months ago, and I realized that it was dangerous for him to be part of the work crew. His job was to find someone, anyone who would be able to provide us with the energy and strong backs that we needed.

I drove back to the injured home on Sunday. My cousin and his family were already there, and they were still struggling to internalize what had happened. I hoped that a cavalry would be on its way, but I had little hope at that moment. When one of my brothers arrived, he and I continued the task of creating pathways so that we would somehow be able to get the largest pieces of furniture outside into the pile of debris that was already beginning to grow even with our feeble efforts. Then my phone began to ring again and again. A group from West Road Church of Later Day Saints and St. Maximillian Catholic Church was coming in thirty minutes with twelve young people eager to work with us. Then came a response from Lakewood Methodist Church members who promised to arrive in the afternoon. Friends of my cousins came one by one as did the members of my family and two dear friends from my childhood. Everyone donned gloves and masks and set to work with abandon.

We set up places to rest under the shade of trees that my cousins had planted years ago. We had tables of food and ice chests filled with drinks. Strangers stopped to give us extra gloves and masks to wear. The work continued and the numbers of people contributing to the cause grew and grew and grew. Young people brought us hamburgers and hot dogs that tasted so good at that moment. Others came with bags of fruit and water. We did not know any of these Good Samaritans. They smiled and blessed us and did their best to provide us with succor and hope. More people called to find out how we were doing and to let us know that they were sending checks for food and supplies. The mountains of ruined clothing that I had removed the day before disappeared as loving volunteers filled bags and took them home to wash. Boxes of dishes and pots and pans were taken away with promises that they would be renewed and cared for. A miracle was unfolding right before our eyes and all of us were so moved that we struggled to maintain our composure. Mostly we gave in to the tears of gratitude that flowed from our hearts and our eyes.

By the end of a very long ten hour day close to fifty souls had worked on the house. The fouled sheetrock and insulation lay inside a mountain of garbage bags along with the family possessions that were hopelessly ruined. It was difficult to even see the front of the home because the yard had become a graveyard for furniture and appliances, but the good news was that the house was on its way to healing. The seemingly impossible had been accomplished. The foul waters had been removed and somehow even as we saw the visible evidence of the destruction that had befallen the house we sensed that it would become a home once again. A ray of hope shown down and renewed our energy and our optimism.

There is still much to be done before my cousins, will feel whole and secure again. The shock of what they are experiencing is being repeated hundreds of thousands of times all over the Houston area. It is almost impossible to imagine how horrific the damage actually is until seeing it in person. There are millions of individual stories associated with this disaster that will never be forgotten even as we all begin the journey back to our daily routines a sense of normalcy. The Houston area now houses two distinct groups of people, those who were lucky enough to dodge the destruction and those whose lives have been so horrifically turned upside down. Sadly the rest of the world is often fickle. They will move on to the next big story and forget the tragedy that has befallen so many souls, but those of us who have seen the unseeable will never forget. We have experienced the kindness of strangers in a very dark hour and these selfless people have forever changed our lives and our outlooks. Nothing will ever be quite the same again.

If you want to help someone who has lost so much in this tragic event here are some wonderful ideas:

  1. Volunteer to do some laundry or wash some dishes for someone whose home was flooded. There are a number of good recipes for how to do this properly online.
  2. Babysit the young children of families who have to work on their houses.
  3. Bring food, water, snacks, gloves, masks and cleaning supplies for the workers.
  4. Make a phone call or send a message of encouragement.
  5. Have someone who was affected over to your house for dinner or just an enjoyable evening.
  6. Don’t wait for those who have lost so much to reach out to you. Many of them are in such a state of shock that they don’t even know how to proceed. Take the initiative and suggest what you would like to do.

So many wonderful people are working to make Houston and its people whole again, but we have to remember that we are all in this for the long haul.

We Are Real!

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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Back in the days before computers and the Internet were as commonplace as they are now, I used to provide my students with instructions regarding the safe use of the then fairly new medium. I reminded them that not all sources are reliable or even true, and that they should check the veracity of statements before believing them. We tend to take the wide world web a bit more for granted that we did when we were still in awe of the information highway, and because of that we have become easier prey to charlatans who would fool us with stories and even photographs that are manufactured. We have also become victims of a constant barrage of opinions that may or may not be based on fact. In spite of my own warnings to beware, I sometimes fall for the shenanigans of imposters myself.

The recent tragedy wrought by hurricane Harvey has created a minefield of outright fabrications, and among them was a fake tweet that supposedly came from President Trump in which he displayed a cavalier attitude toward the victims of the storm. Someone with a creative mind had spliced together ideas from actual Trump tweets to make it appear that our Commander in Chief was almost giddy about the prospect of seeing such an historic tragedy and even more excited about a rally in Maryland afterward. I was incensed upon reading it and posted it on my Facebook wall with a snarky comment. When a couple of my friends insisted that the tweet was not from Trump I did the research that I should have already completed and learned that it was indeed a counterfeit. I deleted the post sheepishly knowing that I had already done damage.

There are far too many folks writing today who tell us what their followers want to hear without taking time to gather the facts before setting their words on paper. The current sport for some is to rain down their wrath on my city of Houston which is suffering mightily. They have written columns that range from insisting that our courage and kindness in this dark hour is a fleeting anomaly to the even more horrendous idea that karma has finally punished us for our political sins. I truly can’t imagine how anyone would think it appropriate to be so cruel, but I am coming to realize that fanaticism of any sort knows no bounds.

Because I was born and raised in Houston, Texas I think I know it as well as anyone. I’ve spent very close to sixty nine years watching it grow and change. I remember seeing the headline announcing that the population had risen to one million. Now there are over six and a half million souls in the metropolitan area. There was a time when the now booming suburbs that extend miles away from the center of town were sleepy farm villages. In the decades during which I followed my life dreams, raised a family and retired to a slower paced lifestyle I have witnessed remarkable changes. Among them is the amazing diversity of our population. We have welcomed people from all over the world. We work and play with them and hardly notice our differences, if anything we celebrate them. We have traveled a long way from being a sleepy segregated town.

My cul-de-sac in the suburb of Pearland which is part of the big metroplex is the perfect example of how culturally mature we have become. We have whites, blacks, Hispanics and Asians all living happily together and watching out for one another. Our neighborhood was quite fortunate not to have any damage during the storm, but we still gathered during the small breaks in rain to be certain that everyone was doing well and to see if anyone needed anything. The little girls next door made cookies for everyone. The man across the street texted important news. We are a family in every sense of the word.

Most people do not understand the enormity of the Houston metropolitan area. It is literally the size of some states. It encompasses at least five counties and a host of smaller towns that are far too many to list. Suggesting for example that the floods were caused by a lack of zoning by the Houston city government is a bit ridiculous because the vast majority of the flooded areas lie within the jurisdiction of other municipalities, all of which think of themselves as being independent but also satellites of the big city of Houston. Most of us live in areas that are a short drive to downtown Houston but which have nothing to do with the government of the city. I, for example, live in Pearland which lies about thirty minutes south of downtown Houston. I am in Brazoria County rather than Harris County, but my area was still heavily featured in television coverage because everyone in the metropolitan region understands that we are an integral part of the bigger picture. Still, we do our own thing here as fare as government, and thus it is in the many places that ring the actual Houston city limits.

The most hateful comments about Houston have alluded to our politics. The irony is that even the satirists at “Charlie Hebdo” created a cover that was shocking both for its outright cruelty and its total lack of factual evidence. The cartoon featured drowning bodies and floating Nazi flags with the headline, “God Exists. He drowned all the neo-Nazis of Texas.” While I’m as willing as anyone to enjoy satire, I’d like to explain to whomever created this cartoon the reality of the situation. The facts may shock them.

There are most certainly a few white supremacists and Nazis in the Houston area. We have people of every other stripe, so it stands to reason that we also have some bigots, but these fringe groups do not in any way represent the vast majority. Houston has a black mayor, an Hispanic police chief and an Hispanic fire chief. It is a city that leans left and votes democrat. In the last presidential election it went overwhelmingly for Hillary Clinton. Admittedly some of the suburban areas are more Republican, but again we are talking about a diversity of philosophies and cultures that are not easily described by generalities. I think of a photo of my eldest grandson in kindergarten that explains the true nature of the Houston area better than satire. He and his buddies are arm in arm with huge grins on their faces. Among them is a boy from Pakistan, a Black, a Chinese, and my little white grandchild. That crew of young men has grown up together in this place that is so misunderstood and thought to be a haven for racial animus. As they attend college and turn twenty one years of age they are still as strongly bonded with one another as they were back when they were five or six years old.

As for questions of whether or not we Houstonians are really courageous and generous in spirit or if our good actions are only a passing phenomenon, my only comment regarding that is that the impression that is playing out on the screen for all the world to see is one hundred percent real. If you don’t believe it, just come live here for a time. You will fall in love with this city and its people. Our kindness is not a fleeting thing. It is our way of life. We are exactly what we appear to be, a loving and giving group of people. Houston is strong and compassionate not just in its darkest days but 24/7, 365 days a year. We are the real deal! That is a fact!

We Are Beautiful

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

maxresdefaultThe sun was out yesterday. It was a beautiful day in Houston, Texas and it’s surrounding suburbs. Our “pet” gecko Stubby returned and the next door neighbor hung his American flag again. Children were outside playing, dogs were barking, cars were moving along the streets. Complete strangers were smiling and waving and shouting greetings. I’ve never seen so much celebrating of a very ordinary day that suddenly felt so extraordinary.

I had to keep checking the calendar to know what day it was. I’ve lost track of time. Was it only a week ago that my little corner of the world was completely normal, or was that years ago in another time and place? How is it even possible that so much can happen in the space of only days? Why is everyone so discombobulated? What is causing our voices to quiver with so much emotion?  Why do I sense that every one of us who experienced the great Harvey flood of 2017 has forever changed?

There was a woman on television advising us to let our feelings out. She counseled that our tears that keep falling are a good thing, part of the process of healing. We have a city of over four million people who are suffering from PTSD. We have endured a lifetime of shock and awe in a very narrow space of time. Our minds and our bodies are reacting exactly as they were designed to do. We should not deny the hurt and the sorrow that is lurking just behind the courage and determination that is driving us to put our city back together. We each need outlets for our quiet worries. We need to embrace each other, hold hands allow the words that we are stifling to leave our lips. We must admit that we need help, even as we attempt to pull ourselves up on our own.

There is great power in reaching out to aid those who did not fare well in this disaster, but there are so many who need our help that it can feel overwhelming. It will be impossible to be in as many places as we want to be, so we must each contribute to the restoration process one step at a time, one day at a time. Even small gestures done collectively will make a great difference. We have to pace ourselves and conserve our energies for the long haul. We need to coordinate our efforts by sharing needs so that nobody will be forgotten, and realize that everyone has a role to play in the long marathon that lies ahead.

We are enthusiastic right now. The whole world is coming to our rescue. Everything seems possible in our present mood of rejoicing that the rains have stopped, but we have to remember that we humans are fickle. Long after interest in our city’s situation has waned, the work of rebuilding will remain. It will be up to us to keep the momentum going. We will need patience, grit, determination. There will be roadblocks and frustrations that will tempt us to lose our hope and rise up in anger. We need to be prepared for the long challenges that lie ahead.

I have marveled at the demonstrations of unity and friendship that I have seen over and over again. I always knew that Houston, Texas was the most remarkable city anywhere, but I guess I really didn’t understand just how deep its compassion and nobility actually is. I have been astounded over and over again by the spirit of this place. Where else is there a furniture store owner who opens his business to those seeking shelter from the storm? In which other place would a hometown sports hero challenge the world to send donations to bring immediate aid to his fans? Is there another town in which the local grocer would send food trucks into the most devastated areas? How do friends and family manage to wade through standing water to help those that they love pull saturated carpet and debris from water logged homes? What is it about Houston that is impressing the entire world?

I awoke this morning to find posts on Facebook that made me smile. Friends who live in Katy braved the waters surrounding their home yesterday to get a first look at what kind of damage had been done to their house. Before the sun had set an army of friends had come to help them to do the preliminary work needed to bring their house back to a habitable state. They filled the curb with carpet and sheetrock and celebrated their accomplishment with a photograph of their smiling crew. Such scenes were repeated all across the soggy landscape, and in every single case there were acquaintences and strangers alike helping in both big and little ways.

There are four million stories unfolding in Houston, each of them important and meaningful. Nobody here should feel alone or unseen. We have linked hands and will not let go. Neither will any of us ever again take our city and its people for granted. We were on the abyss, but we did not fall inside. Today as the sun rises again we marvel in its beauty. We see clearly with eyes that had been blinded to the wonder of this great place. We mark our time with a new kind of calendar that delineates the years before the flood and those that will come after. In the AF years we will surely become even stronger than we have ever been.

In the meantime we roll up our sleeves and we work. We have to think out of the box in finding solutions for today’s problems and planning for a better future. We must be willing to request assistance. People are waiting for the calls for help. They want to help, and they will respond. Give them the blessing of being able to do so for they too need to heal. Just ask for the aid that you need, and for those who can’t seem to find a cause, just seek. Somebody will be very happy for a donation, a meal, a cup of coffee, a friendly ear, a babysitter, a fan, a bottle of bleach, a hug. There is a student who would like a bag of school supplies or needs a counselor. Each of us must find a our role in the process, a way of helping.

We won’t be done tomorrow or even in a few weeks, but there will come a time when we will be able to look back on what we accomplished as a community with great pride. We’ll wear our Houston t-shirts and boast about a city that can’t be understood until you become one of us. We are proud. We are strong. We are beautiful. We are Houston.