I was standing on a street in New Orleans. Post-Katrina New Orleans.

That hurricane with a lady’s name had been most unladylike. Debris lay everywhere. Homes were boarded up and most were damaged. There were no cars moving through the streets.

There were no neighbors greeting one another, no dogs barking, not even a bird chirping. There was silence. An unnatural, eerie silence.

As a member of our church’s Critical Incident Response Team, I had journeyed from faraway Washington state to provide pastoral care to our pastors, congregations and schools as they began the process of emerging from the effects of water and wind.

I stood outside one of those churches and left the pastor inside his office to communicate with some members. Blue tarps hung on the building, the church sign lay flat on the ground where the 120 mph winds left it. I stood in silence.

My eye caught a black SUV turning the corner and approaching. Darkened windows hid the occupants, and as the vehicle neared, I saw through the open passenger window the butt of a shotgun.

Alone on the street, I wondered if they were good guys or bad. The SUV slowed and revealing two men, both armed, in dark clothing.

“Hey, Father, how’s it going?” a voice called out.

Because of my black clerical shirt and white collar, they mistook me for a priest, instead of a Lutheran pastor, a common misidentification. It didn’t matter.

As I approached the open window, it was only then that I saw the markings on their clothes that identified them as federal officers. They had been in the city for three weeks and eagerly anticipated the end of their tour and return to Denver in “three days and a wake up.”

They shared with me some of their experiences in the devastated city.

It was the sight of another vehicle moving several blocks down the street that prompted them to leave. They had to get back to work. As they prepared to drive off, I looked at them both and offered two words, “God bless!”

In the blink of an eye, the driver’s hand shot across toward me, grasped mine, and with a strong handshake, the man replied, “We’ll take that!”

“God bless!” Those two words bore significant meaning for both me and for the two men I met on a street in New Orleans. They understood.

In those words, I sought God’s protection and strength for them in their difficult task. I asked the Almighty to watch over and safely return to their families these men who were caring for others.

Not “Have a good day” or “Be safe,” but may God bless you and keep you by His power.

“We’ll take that!”

These two highly trained professionals, whose job it is to provide safety to others, welcomed their God’s hand upon them. They accepted His caring and support.

They drove off to their duty. I returned to mine. And they and I knew that, on the streets of New Orleans, amid the debris and silence, God was caring for His children.



On Faith columnist the Rev. Ron Norris is pastor at King of Glory Lutheran Church in Gig Harbor. He also serves as Northwest District Disaster Response Coordinator for The Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod, and as a volunteer chaplain for the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department.