Nashville Flood: Meet Paul

People come in and out of your life every day.

The barista at Starbucks.

The guy on the treadmill next to you at the gym.

The cashier at the grocery store.

Most of the contact we make with people day in and day out lasts mere seconds with the exception of coworkers, friends and family. But during the Nashville Floods, I have had the opportunity to come in contact with some incredible people under the most unfortunate of circumstances.

Paul is one of those people.

Paul is a 57 year old factory worker. He's worked in the same factory since he was 21, and has been married to his high school sweetheart, Becky, for almost 40 years. He has seen his share of both good and bad days, he's seen the sun shine and the rain pour. But on May 2, 2010, he saw a sight he never thought he'd see.

Paul's house was one of the sites I was given for Serving Saturday last weekend. Leading a team of about fifteen, we walked an old dirt road past demolished houses unaware of what state his house would be in. None of us had ever met Paul or his wife Becky- his daughter Sarah attends Crosspoint so to us, they're family. His two-story house seemed to be in tact, but as we got closer, we realized even its high foundation didn't hold off the flood. The water line was at about 13 feet, if not higher. As we got acquainted with Paul and his wife, I walked around the house to see all of their belongings piled high... literally thrown out the windows and porch door.

"That's all of it," he said as he pointed to the mountain of memories drenched in muck and merky water. I looked around to see where the water came from, only to find a beautiful field (now mud) for yards around. There was no river, lake or even a creek to blame for this devastation. It just didn't make sense.

Sense or not, we got to work. Fifteen "kids" (Paul kept calling us kids, it was the greatest compliment in his eyes) with crowbars, hammers, and serious ambition ripped the insides of his house apart. As we sat down to have lunch during the demolition of his house, Paul, a worn-out blue-collar man, opened up and showed me a side I don't think many have ever seen. As we sat side by side on what was left of his two rocking chairs, tears began to stream down Paul's face.

"I just don't understand why you would come here, Christina. Trust me, I know there's hundreds of things you kids would rather be doing on a Saturday. Christina why are you here?"

If I could remember what I said to him, I would tell you. It had something to do with him not being alone in this, that we were there not just to say we loved him but to show it. I probably rambled about love in action, and what "we" at Crosspoint believe is truly being the church. It wasn't a long answer, but I guess it was the right one. Through his tears, Paul smiled.

Over the rest of lunch, Paul told me stories of his younger days, back when he had strength and energy like me. He asked about my parents, where I came from, and why in the world a Yankee was in the middle of the Bible Belt. "Glad to have you, though." He laughed.

After lunch, we soon realized we had worked too quickly for our own good. We were done gutting his house, but knew it was far too soon to leave. I was walking through the backyard, trying to come up with a reason to stay when I stumbled upon the answer. Literally.

I know here in the Music City almost everyone is a musician- whether the real deal or just at heart. Visionaries and dreamers come from all corners of the country in attempt to obtain a record deal, a managing contract, or just a few good gigs. It's all about music here in Nashville. What I stumbled upon was Paul's connection to that music, his love for the city and reason for never leaving.

Records.

Hundreds of records.

Boxes... and boxes... and boxes of records.

Covered in mud.

Soaked in flood water.

The heartbeat of a worn down man was sopping wet and ready to be trashed.

"Can we clean these?" Our 3 youngest workers crouched next to the boxes. They began carefully pulling each one out, handling them like priceless works of art.

"You would do that?" Paul started to walk away. He did that a lot. He hated crying in front of us.

We took that as a yes and got to cleaning.

For hours we washed, cloroxed, and dried hundreds of records.

"Aunt Bev", Becky's sister, knew how to clean records and sat with us while we worked. As we picked up each record, Bev would begin to sing one of the tracks on the album. "You know this one girls? No, of course not. Y'all are too young!"

Before we knew it, it was 4:00pm, and time to go. As we packed up our things, I went and found Paul. He shook his head when he saw his records out on the lawn, clean.

"What did I do to deserve this?"

You asked. All you had to do was ask.



*Paul and Becky's house was completely submerged in water Sunday, May 2. The river flooded all of their land and, before they knew it, was at the 13 ft mark. Both of them, along with their daughter and son-in-law, stood in the top floor of their house and waited. They were rescued by boat, having to climb out their top story window and onto their roof to get out and avoid drowning. They made us food (seriously, could have eaten for weeks) and took care of us like they were royalty with all the money in the world to spend. They epitomized gratitude. They claimed utmost blessing on their lives. In the midst of losing it all, they called themselves lucky.