“We reprogram a computer to get rid of the viruses and the ways it was infected. We also help reprogram men and women about how they think about themselves, God, work and their community. When they come to us, their identity is being a bad person. We let them know what they did was bad, but they are wonderfully made with a purpose.” Matt Armbruster
A diagram of a fire ant now hovers in the skyline of downtown Mobile. Located only a few blocks from the port where the stinging insect first entered the U.S., the recently painted ant is part of a four-story mural honoring Dr. E.O. Wilson.
During the height of Delta, one nurse described her job of giving care to the most urgent first as “playing chess with who gets a bed or care.” She went from room to room, deciding which emergency was more important.
“We were forced to make decisions none of us wanted to make,” she said
A summer that began with the hope of ending COVID-19 and returning to normal ended with 556 more deaths in Mobile and Baldwin counties. Healthcare systems were stretched to their limits, and the realization settled in that the coronavirus isn’t going away.
Exhausted doctors and nurses have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from fighting an invisible war. It’s a war they want the public to understand.
I have plenty of issues, but anxiety usually isn’t in my top five.
It is today.
A week into September, a Mobile County renter appeared before District Court Judge Spiro Cheriogotis. The renter said he caught COVID-19 and had been out of work since April. Four months behind on his rent, he owed $4,950 for the house managed by Keith Realty, plus costs. Both sides entered court with an eviction agreement that provided the renter 30 days to move out.
Our hope comes from the people around us.
The ones who helped neighbors look for a lost cat with a white cat with a black tail or find a home for a stray puppy that had to be coaxed out of the bushes.
The ones who are finding new ways to celebrate Mardi Gras, keeping the spirit alive and float makers and artists employed.
The one who pledged a $1 donation to the Penelope House shelter for victims of domestic violence for every strand of Mardi Gras beads thrown over a branch of the oak tree in front of her house.
2020 may not have been the year we deserved, but it was a year of doing the best we can with what we had.
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.
