I will miss the glow of the church as the congregation sings “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright” on one of the longest nights of the year. Hundreds of candles flickering to the song of radiant beams, redeeming grace and love's pure light.
“The trees fell away from our house in the Marlow area,” Melissa said. “Every other home in our neighborhood was damaged. We knew it was a sign from God that it was time to help our neighbors.”
“I wondered at times if I was in the right place, doing the right thing, then this happened,” Byrd said. “I now understand a gas station is not meant to just take money from the community. We are here to serve and to be a part of it. A woman swam out of her house on Fish River, and this is the first place she came. We have been sharing the resources we have to help our community through this crisis.”
2020 has been an election of fear - fear of Trump destroying our country, fear of Biden destroying our country, fear of losing all that we have, fear of being left behind, fear of Coronavirus, fear of hurricanes.
Before life returns to normal, we need to remember what Sally was.
There are fences around my house. Wooden ones to keep horses in the pasture and electric ones that fail at keeping dogs in the yard. There is also the pretty white fence running along two sides with a sign that says “Private Property No Trespassing” that was put up long before we moved in.
Mindi Kelly hands Lamont a blessing bag filled with socks, deodorant, toothpaste, wipes, chapstick, a fruit cup, and a chicken salad kit. He reads the words “God bless you. You are loved. We will get through this together,” which Mindi had written on the outside of his Ziploc bag.
The heart may truly love, but pieces of Mobile history could be forgotten if Mother Nature reclaims this land. From Civil Rights leaders to educators. From doctors and musicians to Mardi Gras Queens. From grandparents to grandchildren. Their bodies are buried, but their names and stories should live on.
Downtown Anchorage, the largest city in Alaska, is empty. Cruises are canceled, so no ships are docked in the harbor unloading tourists to eat and drink at the Glacier Brewhouse, to buy sweatshirts and flakes of gold at Trapper Jack's Trading Post, or to line up around the block to take the trolley tour. The windows of the Hard Rock Cafe are boarded with plywood and bike racks are empty. At the Dark Horse Cafe, masks are required because the cafe owners are fighting to stay open with the few customers they have.
You have to look beyond the front page to find kindness. To see we aren't always letting each other down. These would be the stories from my front page this week.
During the past few weeks, Emmett Till's name has been chanted in protests and marches across the country, including Fairhope and Mobile. We need to know his story, not just say his name.
She is more than a woman resting in a swing. She raised seven kids, but ran away with the youngest two, leaving her marriage to an abusive man. She went to seminary, married a pastor, and will soon be the pastor of her own small church.
Fairhope is a tale of two cities, with sunny sides and dark sides, restaurant owner Pete Blohme said. Blohme owns Panini Pete’s and Sunset Pointe in Fairhope, Ed’s Seafood Shed in Spanish Fort, and Squid Ink in Mobile.
“People struggle here just like anywhere else, but they are hidden away,” he said in an interview before the Coronavirus. “We also have businesses, churches, and organizations that care.”
This “fair hope of success” is the feel-good history of Fairhope, but the untold story is of the black people who go back for generations and who have never been anywhere else, according to the Rev. John Whitfield, founding pastor of New Zion Christian Church.
Ecumenical Ministries, a social services agency in Fairhope, has provided help to low-income families and individuals in Baldwin County for 50 years. Executive Director Sally Dean said affordable housing is the biggest issue for the working poor in Fairhope and everywhere else in the country, but there are no easy answers.
This is humankind’s response to disasters. Southern disasters rip off roofs. They toss church awnings and trailers into trees. They scatter family photos and children’s art around the yard. Sometimes our disasters leave us with little more than the clothes on our backs. But we help our neighbors recover, rebuild, and move on.
