When we moved to the small town of Canton, North Carolina, last fall, we heard stories about flooding. Living in the mountains spells unpredictability. In 2021, Tropical Storm Fred flooded the river that runs through our city, destroying significant portions of the downtown area. Some homes and businesses were lost.
So when we heard that Hurricane Helene had headed our way, people took it seriously. It seemed our little city was on guard and prepared for the storm. But on Friday morning, we still watched with collective shock and dismay when floodwaters were approaching rooflines and still rising.
One mantra I’ve been hearing in the aftermath is “Mountain people are resilient.” And they are. The spirit and the strength of our new community in this crisis is honestly staggering. But any level of preparedness or resilience doesn’t nullify trauma. Or homelessness. Or watching your business literally disappear before your eyes in a mudslide.
As community members and church leaders in the area, my husband and I have been eager to support our neighbors who were impacted by the flood. But widespread cellular and internet outages have made even the most basic communication and collaboration difficult. The first few days after the storm, our lives became hyperlocal: We walked through town, talking and praying with people and pooling resources with friends on our street.
Then, my husband started making his way around the county to coordinate broader efforts. I was at home with three small children and no way to hear or share news or participate in citywide projects. My inability to contribute was maddening. I was wracked with a strange combination of frantically wanting to help and being extremely limited in what I could do.
The truth, I soon remembered, is that limitation is a basic human condition. In our digitized, high-speed age, we believe the lie that we are limitless, omnipresent and omniconnected—but in reality, we are so very finite. Sometimes it takes a crisis to force us to realize this. Even then, we tend to rage against our limits, punishing ourselves for not being able to do more or becoming so disillusioned that we retreat into apathy.
But on the other side of the frustration is a freeing realization: All that any of us can do is the one or two things in front of us. We feed our kids; we pray for our neighbors; we donate or fundraise or hand out bottled water. These things might feel laughably small or even irrelevant in the face of national or global crises, but they are the very things God entrusts to us. In return, we must trust that God conscripts us, limits and all, to manifest his limitless love and presence in the world.
I see this promise on display in the composite stories around me. One of my neighbors, a pharmacist, is working part-time shifts at the hospital while also caring for her six school-age kids at home. Another, a pastor’s wife and small business owner, helps empty someone’s flooded house during the day and shares her family’s Wi-Fi signal with needy neighbors (like me) at night. This week, a newly ordained Lutheran minister whom we’ve never met drove a truck full of supplies across the state to our Anglican church—supplies she bought with the money she was gifted for her ordination. In their unique ways, each of them is part of the tapestry God is weaving to showcase his beauty in this tragedy.
Each of them also wishes they could do more. Many out-of-state friends and colleagues wish they could do more than donate, send supplies, or pray. But to those of us on the ground, each small offering we receive multiplies—it becomes not only blankets or bottled water or money but also a tangible reminder that we have not been forgotten. Today I unloaded dozens of relief boxes packed by complete strangers, people I will likely never meet or get to thank directly. Their gifts brought tears to my eyes.
Sometimes, of course, even small acts of obedience like packing a relief box or helping to unload it can feel overwhelming. In a crisis, our brains often lock down and we lose the ability to function normally. We feel overwhelmed by all the needs or frozen with confusion and fear. In these moments, the act of obedience entrusted to us might be as simple as getting out of bed or even offering up a prayer for help.
When I lost my brother suddenly six years ago, my first steps forward included choosing to eat breakfast and then going for a walk outside one day at a time. In the disorientation of that grief, I worked on my own small obedience.
But I did not walk alone. People supported me in myriad ways. They sent flowers, brought meals, played with my kids. Then, as now, it wasn’t a singular hero who swept in and fixed everything but an army of people doing the little things they could do to help. Because of them, my memories of a dark season are littered with gratitude and even joy. I believe the same will be true of this season in my town’s life.
I return to this belief as I grow in my understanding of Helene’s impact in my community. When I walked through town today, I began to realize how long this season will be. We will be recovering from this flood for years. The thought overwhelms me. My limited ability to help others over the long haul—or even to help myself when despair wells up in my throat—tempts me to burn out or to give up.
But in view of God’s expansive resources, our personal limitations are a gift to be received. In our collective weakness, we experience his strength. And in our small acts of obedience, we participate in a much larger economy of grace.
In this economy, the line between “helpers” and “receivers” blurs as we all practice saying “please” and “thank you.” And our confidence grows—not in our ability to accomplish our desired ends, but in the Father’s ability to fulfill his purposes through us.
This frees us to offer up what we have every day, even though we know it’s not enough. We trust that he will take and distribute our offering as he sees fit. We can’t control or understand how our offering might multiply. Sometimes we can’t even see it. But in the end, we will all be fed by his mercy—with baskets left over.
Hannah Miller King is a priest and writer serving at The Vine Anglican Church in Waynesville, North Carolina, and the author of a forthcoming book about living with hope in the presence of pain.
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