The Incalculable Cost of Helene 

by Tiffani Irwin, Director of Sustainable Facilities

Half my family lives in Asheville, North Carolina. I have friends in other communities impacted by Helene. The pictures of flattened communities, missing roads and downtowns that were simply washed away are incomprehensible. The stories in the press seem unbelievable. Isolated by closed roads, no power, no water, no cell service, the extent of damage remained unrealized even by residents for the first few days. Once limited travel and communications were possible, the horror of the storm became heartbreaking and the realities of day-to-day life in the aftermath a string of lessons in reality. It was my first conversation with my sister, once she again had cell service, that made this disaster real. 

My sister serves on the board of a very impactful non-profit that supports veterans in transitioning from homelessness to self-reliance. While the location that serves women and their children survived, the men lost everything. They are essentially again homeless. Her daughter is a pharmacist with a company that services rehab and long-term care facilities. For two days, no one could reach the pharmacy. Despite amazing help from amazing volunteers and long workdays, my niece reports they are still not caught up on filling all the prescriptions that have come in. Even in affected areas, the needs of “life before” continue and are complicated by new demands. 

The most heart-breaking news is that my 7-year-old great-nephew lost a dear friend named Micah, a best friend, to the flooding of the Swannanoa River. Micah and his mother, Meghan, had recently moved in with her parents so she could go back to nursing school. The family made it to the roof of the house as the flood waters rose. Meghan was able to text with her sister in Texas, who tried desperately to reach emergency services in Asheville. Suddenly the texts stopped. The roof had collapsed, and the family swept away. Miraculously, Meghan was caught up in debris. As she clung to that debris, a voice told her she could not stay there, she had to let go. Somehow, she found the strength to do just that, and a police officer down river was able to rescue her. Her 7-year- old son and her parents are all gone. Her pain and loss are unimaginable, her life altered immeasurably. 

When my niece and her husband sat down with their son and told him of Micah’s death, he had many hard, insightful questions, including “what could G!d want with a 7-year-old boy?” Last Sunday, he told his mom he thought it would help if they went to church, and they did. Once again, our children lead us, reminding us that hope comes through faith. 

Before coming to Adamah, I worked for Habitat for Humanity and was able to participate in disaster response. During those years, I learned that communities may rebuild, but they will not recover. The fabric of a community is indelibly altered by disaster. The magic and beauty of a diverse population is lost. Speculators move in, the cost of living increases. Those most impacted are often least able to afford to rebuild. Many of those displaced cannot afford to return. Often what made a community special is diminished by disaster. Asheville was an amazing amalgamation of artists, small town folks, transplants, liberals, conservatives – what Asheville will be in the future is unknown. 

The consequences of climate change and climate disasters are increasing exponentially. Disasters are more frequent, more devastating, more costly, more life-threatening. The work we do at Adamah to drive awareness of, and combat climate change could not be more critical. Climate change needs to be a consideration of every decision we make. What more can we do to limit our negative impact? How do we raise awareness and drive change? Every step forward could be a disaster minimized or, please G!d, averted.

This is our calling. This is our faith journey. This is what makes us Adamah.  

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