NO, this isn’t a giant zit in the Gulf of Mexico.

This is Katrina. Hurricane Katrina. Before it slammed in to my city on August 29, 2005.

Four years ago today, I didn’t know that, on the timeline of my life, I would mark August 25 as the last day I thought my life would go on as usual.

I didn’t know the governor would be on television a day later, declaring a state of emergency. Though, even that was taken in stride.  Those of us who experienced hurricanes knew the whole “state of emergency” political yammering was protocol. The pre-hurricane declaration expedited post-hurricane aid.

I didn’t know that two days later, Katrina would be a Category 3 hurricane, and the governor would request a federal state of emergency.

I didn’t know that three days later, Katrina would be upgraded to a Category 4. Five hours later, it was a Category 5. Less than three hours later, the mayor issued the first ever mandatory evacuation of New Orleans.

That afternoon, we heard this from the National Weather Service: In the event of a category 4 or 5 hit, “Most of the area will be uninhabitable for weeks, perhaps longer. … At least one-half of well-constructed homes will have roof and wall failure. All gabled roofs will fail, leaving those homes severely damaged or destroyed. … Power outages will last for weeks. … Water shortages will make human suffering incredible by modern standards.” [National Weather Service

We live in an area outside of New Orleans that’s above sea level, so we decided to ride it out.

I didn’t know I would spend most of August 29, 2005 on my knees asking God to forgive my stupidity.

The sky started to darken at 7:00 in the morning. Three hours later, the winds arrived. I’d not witnessed hurricanes during the day. Especially those with winds of 120-125 mph. The wind sliced the trunks of giant pine trees, not vertically, but horitzontally. Towering trees that didn’t break were pummeled into submission, bent so far over that their needles swept against the grass.

At first, I didn’t think it was raining; I couldn’t see it falling around us. Then I realized what was happening. It wasn’t fa lling because it was horizontal.

Pine cones, branches, bits of roof, assortments of air-borne debris bashed into the house, the windows, the roof. Sometimes the sound was like that of an aluminum bat connecting with a ball. Other times, the battering was so incessant it could have been gunfire.

But even knowing that any one of the seven trees we lost that day could have fallen on us and not near us, I watched, awestruck by this formidable display of nature’s raw power.

We were blessed. So very blessed. When the winds finally tired of us and moved on, we stepped out to survey the damage. Trees, branches, debris blanketed the streets and driveways. Like God dumped a forest on top of us. Our physical damage was minimal.

I remember, most of all, what I heard then. Nothing. For days. Nothing. No birds, no crickets. Nothing.

I didn’t know that the lesson I learned that day would change my life forever.

The house, the furniture, the cars, the stuff. None of it mattered. Not compared to what we stood to lose that day.

For five days, I couldn’t communicate with my children. Cell towers were done, no electricity, no phone lines…Three of my children were in Texas, another over an hour away. They didn’t know if we’d made it. All they could do was watch the news coming out of the city and pray.

Finally, a piece of a text message came through. A few syllables of voice contact.

That’s what matters.

Family.

(pictures by Jessica Talamo)