The water coming out of the taps is now potable. For those who haven’t needed to know what that means: You can drink it. 

On Sept. 27, Hurricane Helene laid waste to 500 miles of the Southern Appalachians. I live in the Swannanoa Valley in western North Carolina, which was particularly hard-hit. While we have our services back, school is back in session and many businesses are reopening, in some ways our area looks worse than ever. 

There are now mountains of dirt and debris that large earth movers have cleared from roads, parking lots and hillsides. The leaves have fallen from the trees, leaving an unobstructed view of the mud and trash left by the rushing flood water. Everywhere there are growing mounds of molding carpet, insulation and furniture as people clear out their homes and businesses. 

A first lesson from the storm: Sometimes things get worse before they get better. 

The silver linings from catastrophic events like Helene are the lessons we learn and the ways those “make us a better person.” 

I’ve learned the meaning of “potable” (which, inexplicably, rhymes with boat-able) and “turbidity.”

Sometimes we relearn truths we’ve tried to deny, like how people feel virtuous using others as their guinea pigs. 

The day after we found out we could drink the water again, friends and co- workers passionately declared: “I’m not drinking that stuff!” 

Why not? I asked. Don’t you trust the experts who say it’s safe? 

Not really. I mean, Flint, Michigan, right? 

OK, that’s fair. Will you ever drink the water? 

Probably, but I’m going to wait and see how it affects other people. 

Um, OK. Something feels morally off there.

When times get tough, the gap between the haves and the have-nots becomes more obvious. 

Though many homes were affected, poor people are more likely to lose everything. Middle-class and wealthy folks have insurance and can rebuild. 

Land and rent in a floodplain are cheaper, meaning people with less money live there and can’t afford the insanely expensive flood insurance. 

Poor people generally do not have financial investments that are safe from wind, water and sliding mud. Their wealth is in their physical possessions, easily carried away by a raging river. 

All of this applies to the small businesses without large money reserves and corporate connections. Many are still paying off loans they took on to survive COVID. And no, FEMA does not give money to businesses.

Besides these negative lessons, there are many positive ones. For weeks, our normal lives ground to a halt. Work, school, sports, church — all disappeared without warning. It felt like COVID all over again. 

Quickly, the experience proved completely opposite. During COVID, people were your enemy. How were they feeling? Were they being careful? Were they vaccinated? We lived in fear of each other, perhaps the most damaging outcome of COVID. 

In contrast, Helene brought people together. Words cannot express the generosity and grace people offered. The sight of another human, friend or stranger, coming your way brought joy (they were alive!) and gratitude (they were usually coming with a chain saw or water or updated information, all sorely needed). 

What a privilege to run toward each other and not away. 

Helene Taught me that church is, indeed, a worthwhile enterprise. The churches of western North Carolina were Jesus’ hands and feet. We clothed the naked and fed the hungry. We hosted medical clinics and checked on those that were homebound. 

We did not do this for attention or because anyone asked us to. All the churches we volunteered with were flying by the seat of their pants. They had no experience with this level of need. They simply saw the people and the situation and started offering cups of cold water in Jesus’ name. 

In crisis, people turn to the church. Before Mercy Chefs, World Kitchen, Red Cross or FEMA, we trust God’s people will be there. And they always are.