It’s times like this I often think about the woman who saved my life. I don’t know her name. I don’t know where she is or what she is doing. I do know she drove a white SUV and her house was underwater—and she is quite possibly the only reason for my existence, and the most amazing person I’ve ever encountered.
We met her in Kentucky; we had pulled off for food as a local fast food restaurant. She wasn’t there when we arrived—me, my niece and nephew and my brother-in-law. I wasn’t there she we arrived, either.
The kids were restless and needed the restroom, the boys went together and I towed my toddler niece into the ladies room for a diaper change. When we came back out, there was a shorter, older, blonde woman standing near the trunk of a sleek, but small, white SUV.
We didn’t know what she was doing, and I don’t know how the conversation was started—John was already involved in it when we came back to the car. In her car were two, what appeared to be, teenage girls who looked very similar. Both occasionally glanced back to us, but neither one smiled nor invited themselves to join the conversation and the woman did not coax them to. There were several garbage bags in her trunk—black, unforgiving.
She was telling her story to John, so I pulled Kaylee onto my hip and listened in. It was a truly amazing tale filled with grief, love, hate, and joy all at the same time. We didn’t dare interrupt her as she let out what she needed:
“Katrina hit my house.”
The woman would pause between earth shattering phrases as she moved things around in the vehicle, as if dividing them.
“My husband and parents are still there, but my parents’ house is on a hill so it was safe. My husband stayed behind to get to the house when he’s allowed, though I haven’t heard from him in days.”
For months Katrina was all we heard about on the news. We saw all the pictures, we witnessed many rescues, we heard death tolls and property damage estimates and of the floating diseases. Until this point it was all just a story. But, what came next nearly stopped our hearts from beating.
With a small smile, the woman stopped what she was doing and placed her hands on her hips, squinting in the setting sun as she spoke, “My house may be ruined and underwater, but my children are safe, my husband is alive, and my parents are safe. We were in Knoxville last night, and someone stole the gas right out of my car—but they didn’t hurt my car.”
She paused for a moment, as if glancing into the sky at something only she could see, “God has been so good to me.” Genuine hope, faith, and love. “He really has.”
We didn’t really know what to do, other than to offer any help possible. We offered money, but she refused. Proud; respectable. What she said we could do was take some clothes. She was heading north of Cincinnati and she couldn’t afford the gas to hull the weight of all the clothing. We did as she asked, promising to find people to use them. She thanked us, got in the car, and we never saw her again.
I have a feeling, had we not been there, she would have told her story to whoever was. It wasn’t a pity story, it was a story of survival—of strength, of courage, of love and of faith. I often wonder what became of her, if she is still in Cincinnati or if she has returned to her home and rebuilt her life. I wonder if she remembers that day, remembers us, or knows the impact she held on my sixteen year old life.
Mostly, I wonder if my life was worth saving or, if she could see me, she would have preferred to us her powers on someone else more useful. But, even if I didn’t know it then, it was that day I decided I would make it worth her while. She taught me that the most important thing in life was to never lose hope, because a life without hope is not a life at all—merely a reflection of disaster.
