My new Lug bag arrived today. I'd ordered just the right one for my trip next week. I had planned a fun trip to the Northwest and possibly a surprise visit to  see my sister for her birthday.  That trip was cancelled a few days ago to concentrate on my flooded home. No whales, no little grand-nephews, no much needed fellowship with family. Harvey rained out a lot of our plans, didn't he?
 As I see photos of friends' trips and special occasions,  I wonder if I'll ever just get out of my debris-filled neighborhood.  
Life doesn't seem to have any "normal" in it.  It's packing, demolishing, pushing sheet rock dust from one destroyed room to yet another.  Right now it  seems like there are three groups of people in our city: the displaced, the exhausted volunteers, and the ones going on with their everyday lives. I must be honest; sometimes I resent the latter one,  wondering  if the reservoir casualties will ever return to their former lives.  But then my heart floods with gratitude for the beautiful army of volunteers. They have not forgotten us! They sacrifice their weekends, quietly serving in the stench,  laboring in our houses that look as if they've been bombed. They don their masks and gloves and spread much needed hope to the displaced.   
I hate being in the first group, because I desperately want to serve alongside my church family. Instead, I, like many, have no choice but to receive. That's really hard for me, but I quickly realize that stubborn pride hinders my recovery.  
The new turquoise bag's back in its original box; instead of packing this weekend for a wonderful fall trip, I'm unpacking the lessons learned by cruel Harvey: endurance, patience, gratitude and humility.