“Well, I see life is returning to normal,” said one of my sons Friday. We were driving down Rampart Street at the edge of downtown New Orleans and he had spotted a lady-of-the-street sashaying down a sidewalk. A few residents have moved back into that neighborhood, but the city is being repopulated by construction workers from all fifty states, and I suppose she’s trying to befriend this group.

The Sav-A-Center grocery store, the successor of the old A & P, has reopened at Franklin Avenue and Leon Simon, not far from the University of New Orleans campus. Since very few people in that area have power (our associational office still doesn’t), I wondered why. My sons and I checked it out Friday. Construction trucks were literally everywhere–filling the parking lots, medians, etc.–and the store’s clients were almost exclusively these out-of-town workers. With nothing else open in that part of the world, we ended up having lunch alongside them in the store’s deli.

Outside, someone handed a flyer to my son Neil, advertising “Rooms Available–$28.” “Bunk beds-showers-fresh linens-cable-internet” it said, adding, “Must prepay for one week stay. Location: Downtown New Orleans on Canal.”

Many out-of-town workers have pulled campers and erected tents at City Park, 1500 acres of golf courses-children’s storyland-picnic areas, and now has become another victim of the storm. Trees down everywhere, hundreds of employees laid off since no money is available to pay them, one section being used as a temporary dumping ground for trees and materials being hauled away from home sites, and now the campers. The city fathers decided to organize the visitors and set aside part of the park as a camp site. Anyone throwing a tent will pay $300 a month, $350 if you bring a camper. Our visitors are complaining. “We came down here from Ohio to help you reclaim your city, and you charge us for a place to throw a tent?” Figuring out to about ten dollars a day, this is pocket change for most of these folks who are racking up big profits for their charitable works. I hope they are. They deserve it and we appreciate them. But the park needs their help.

My son Marty–computer guy for Charlotte’s Bank of America and keeper of this website, husband of Misha, father of Darilyn and Jack, and Margaret’s baby boy–flew into town Thursday afternoon to talk with some folks about getting their website up and running. And to visit with his folks of course. I think he felt left out by the Friday tour-of-the-city I gave his big brother Neil a few weeks ago. So, Neil joined us on Friday and we did a second version of that tour.

We drove into Lakeview and across to the Lakefront and Gentilly, down to Chalmette and Arabi in St. Bernard, then back to downtown New Orleans, and home via Magazine Street.

We checked out churches, of course; this is what their Dad does. Lakeview, Pontchartrain, and Gentilly. FBC Chalmette, FBC Arabi, and Grace in Bywater. They were horrified at what they saw inside the Arabi church. It goes without saying that it’s all right to enter any of these churches. They’re all open. Way, way open. Enter at your own risk.

At Grace Baptist Church, the pastor’s residence next door (see a recent article at this website describing Grace’s position in this neighborhood) was standing open since the downstairs had fairly well been gutted. I heard voices and walked upstairs, calling out along the way lest I startle someone. Pastor Bill Rogers, newly returned from evacuation at his son’s home in Poughkeepsie, NY, sat in the kitchen with some men from an appliance store who were installing a new washer and dryer. I was glad for my sons to meet one of New Orleans’ originals. This 75-year-old youngster is one of a kind. Sharp. Funny. Loving. And still growing. He’s close to getting his doctorate from the Baptist seminary in Louisville, Kentucky. In church growth, of all things.

“Charlie Dale is on his way down from Tuscaloosa,” Bill said. “He’s bringing some volunteers with him and they’ll be working on the church this weekend. Charlie throws his air mattress in a classroom upstairs and sleeps there.” Pause. “Hey, we had 27 in church Sunday. People are returning to the neighborhood.”

Magazine Street looked almost normal, with only a quarter of the businesses still closed. Parking was normal, almost non-existent. Neil, Marty, and I found a coffee shop and pulled over. Outside on the sidewalk, people were quietly taking in the autumn sun. Inside, every table was taken by single individuals on laptops, not a sound being made by a soul.

Back at home, Margaret had prepared a big meal–roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, canteloupe. Freddie Arnold joined us for supper, but Neil and Julie had a date, while their children were headed to the church for the re-started Friday night activities.

“Would you sweep the patio,” Margaret asked. A fine black dust has filled the air of this city and quietly blankets everything. Is it construction residue? or something else. The newspaper says local doctors do not know whether the hacking cough and congestion everyone is experiencing is related to the debris, mold, mildew, or are we having colds. Freddie Arnold said, “I can tell them. I was out of the city for four days and mine cleared up. I came back in last night and it’s already back.”

It’s almost Thanksgiving time. It’s always Thanksgiving time around here. God is blessing on every hand.

I’m delighted to be hearing from some of our displaced pastors. Jeffrey Friend (Hopeview Mission, St. Bernard Parish) called from Michigan, Johnny Jones (Free Mission, Lower 9th Ward) from Kentucky, and others far and near.

A year ago the oral surgeon did a biopsy under my tongue, and a few days after Thanksgiving the report came back with the dreaded word “cancer.” In December, my ear-nose-throat surgeon removed the offending membrane under the tongue, and then in January-February-March we went through 30 radiation treatments. I barely remember them these days since so much has intervened to capture my memories. Blisters in the mouth, horrible tastes, losing 30 pounds, sunburned neck and shoulders, misery. But, so much to give thanks for. So many people prayed, my mouth healed, the appetite returned, food tastes great, and I have no cancer. My doctor, who was seeing me monthly, said the other day, “Come back in three months.”

Much to give thanks for. Friends from all over the country and beyond, praying for us and giving generously and coming to help. The privilege of working alongside some of God’s finest–pastors, church members, denominational leaders. I wouldn’t trade jobs with anyone. Although, when my predecessor, Fred Dyess, called recently to ask how I was doing and to assure me of his prayers, I could not resist asking, “You want this job back?” He laughed and declined the honor. Those two lakes he has built and stocked with bass and trout require his full-time attention, I reckon. I’m seriously thinking about going up to help him for a few hours.

So much to give thanks for. God’s people around the country have taken in our citizens and shown them love and kindnesses, and in many cases, introduced them to the Savior and abundant living. Some will not be coming back to their housing projects down here, riddled with crime and plagued with drugs and burdened with poverty. God bless those who have found lives with good schools and decent jobs and normal housing and faithful churches and green grass. Regardless what the city leaders say, they would be foolish to return. Start a po-boy shop in your new city, order some Zatarain’s and make your own gumbo, put on Fats Domino singing “Walking to New Awlins”, and you’ll do just fine where you are.

I cannot think of thanksgiving without remembering the wonderful story told by Matthew Henry about the time he was robbed at gunpoint. Someone who knew Henry’s fondness for I Thessalonians 5:18 (“In everything give thanks”) asked what reasons for thanksgiving he found in that little episode. “I can think of four reasons to give thanks. One, I was never robbed before. Two, he did not hurt me. Three, even though he took my purse, there wasn’t much in it. And four, I’m thankful I was the robbee, not the robber.”

So much to give thanks for.