October 8 - “Smiles”

I went to the bank today.  It has many branches, and the one by my house looks to have a lot of damage, so I went to Branch Number One – Numero Uno – Broadway.  That means I had to drive “clear to 25^th Street.”  Now I don’t consider myself to live on the West End (though apparently FEMA does), because I am behind the seawall.  But I guess it’s the BOI Galveston blood in me.  I don’t particularly like to go anywhere east of 61^st Street.  It’s a boundary line. But to get to the bank I had to cross it.

When I finally arrived and went inside, there was frantic movement everywhere.  Workmen carrying sheetrock.  Vice presidents dealing with loan customers at temporary tables in the middle of the floor.  Tape strips blocking access to certain areas.  A sign on one important door – “No Public Restrooms.”  I saw one familiar face from my branch, but she was on the phone.  So was the next teller and the next.  Finally I spied the only open slot and made my approach.  All I wanted was to make a quick deposit.  Just as I got to the window, she answered the phone, talked briefly, and put the caller on hold.  “Good,” I thought.  “She’s dealing with the real live customer in front of her first.  Proper customer relations.”  I was wrong.  She put the receiver down and walked away.  I leaned against the counter to wait for her return, and I noticed something.  Everyone was busy, busy, busy.  Understandable.  That’s not what stood out, though.  It was … no smiles anywhere.  My teller returned and did my transaction in record time.  Then back to busy, busy, busy.  And still no smiles.

Then I went to the permit office to check out nasty rumors about our neighborhood being in the “dreaded yellow zone.”  What did that mean?  Sure enough, the first thing I saw was a map on the wall, and Gulf Village was as yellow as a banana (Banana?  I must be hungry).  At that point I realized that I didn’t even know the right questions to ask.  I was surrounded by contractors and other professionals at the back of a long line.  I noticed a small crowd forming around a man with a name tag.  He looked vaguely familiar, so I eased over to eavesdrop.

The city rep answering questions turned out to be the grown up son of a pony league baseball coach I had “back in the day.”  Made it easier to approach him if I pictured the squatty little batboy in the photo we later salvaged of that team.  He answered the questions I couldn’t formulate, though.  “Gulf Village.  To get a permit to rebuild you have to be eleven feet above the flood plain.  Otherwise (OK, this is us – we’re at eight feet, three inches), you have to wait for FEMA to finish its inspection of the entire city.  Four to six weeks.”

Question answered.  Disappointment.  And then, as I came out from the fog of confusion, I saw it again.  Long lines.  Busy, busy, busy.  And no smiles.

At last I returned home – to my house – to what was home.  It was me and Chris (and Christina for awhile).  There was only one other family around on our end of the street.  The place was subdued.  Quiet, quiet, quiet.  Yet breaking through – no, screaming through – was the occasional calm, sweet smile from Christina that said, “I wish I could fix it, but I’ll walk through it with you.”  We’re not in this alone.  The last thing Jesus told his disciples was “surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”  (Matthew 28:20).

Father, I’m anxious to rebuild, but I don’t want a frantic, busy-busy-busy, no-smiles life.  I want to grin.  To laugh out loud.  To play.  Help me find joy in you.  Amen.