In 2017, a week after Hurricane Harvey hit the coastal communities near Galveston Bay, our school doors reopened to a changed world. Harvey was a catastrophe that upended thousands of lives across our region. Families watched as their belongings were ruined and memories washed away, and many faced long, uncertain days ahead.
Neighbors rescued neighbors by boat while emergency resources stretched thin. Some students returned to school having lost everything, wearing clothing borrowed from friends. The emotional scars were evident, and for some, rebuilding homes and hearts would take years.
More than a week after Harvey, teachers came back to campus for two workdays before students returned. The idea was to plan how we’d pick up where we left off, but the entire day was weighed down by uncertainty and quiet.
Most of us sat at our desks, surrounded by the hum of the building, staring at classrooms that seemed more pale and anemic than before we left, unsure how to begin. The exhaustion and sense of loss showed on every face. I made coffee, turned on my computer, sifted through emails, and looked over the lesson plans we’d missed, but a heavy silence hung in the air. I can’t remember anything I accomplished, but I was there—and it was a start.
By the following day, a shift had begun. The quiet isolation began to break, and moments of teacher camaraderie surfaced—small words of encouragement, shared coffee, a gentle pat on the back. There was a sense of renewed focus.
Countless volunteers from churches, charities, and organizations—some coming from far away, others from nearby—offered help across every part of our school district. They brought food, clothing, and helping hands to tear out ruined drywall and salvage what could be saved.
It was heartbreaking to drive through neighborhoods and see personal belongings piled in heaps by the street, yet even that felt like progress. Whether in homes or in students’ lives, we learned that sometimes you must clear away the past to rebuild.
This kind of love and support was absolutely necessary after the horror of Harvey. But what we often miss is how it’s needed in the lives of others nearly every day. A church member unexpectedly loses a child. A neighbor is unemployed and quietly needs help with groceries. A friend sits beside an ill parent in the hospital, needing someone to put their arm around them.
Ordinary struggles call for the same compassion and grace we rallied in a crisis. Often, we’re hesitant because we don’t know exactly what to do, but we can start with a small act of kindness—a gift card for lunch on a busy day, or a container of homemade cookies. It might be the opening to do more, or simply the lift someone needs at a particular moment.
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” — 2 Corinthians 1:3–4
. . . and that’s what I know today.