After the Deluge
People on a college campus and in a mountain community find help and healing while rebuilding their lives after Hurricane Helene
"Can I pray for you?" the woman with a Southern accent asked me.
I waited, awkwardly, and then stammered my response: "Ah, sure, OK."

As a fellow Southerner and lifetime Episcopalian, I'm no stranger to prayer, yet I don't make a habit of praying with strangers on the phone.
But this time, I needed the help.
As a single mother and teacher of environmental education, I'd spent 25 years raising two daughters and mentoring hundreds of young people at Warren Wilson College, a small liberal arts college in Swannanoa, North Carolina, where students work on campus in jobs ranging from farm hand to fiber artist.
Still Recovering, Slowly
After Hurricane Helene struck our region last September, I was lucky to have a roof over my head in the rental duplex where I live on campus, but my financial future was invested in a house leaning over a gully a few miles away.
Those words became my own internal mantra
During the historic storm, a trickle of a creek became a raging river that washed away much of the land under the foundation of the 850-square foot rental property I owned in an unincorporated working-class area called Beacon Village.
The entire region between Asheville and Black Mountain made national news due to the massive destruction from the storm. I'd called a Christian volunteer organization for support hauling away debris. Little did I know how much I needed the prayers.
Supported by Prayer
"Lord, help Mallory figure out a way forward with her house, and keep her fears at bay as she engages with students in the classroom," the woman said. "Help her to stay grounded and support their learning — and help them to teach her as well."

The volunteer's simple but on-point prayer brought me to tears: Indeed, those words became my own internal mantra in the weeks ahead. "Help me to stay grounded," I would repeat to myself when I woke in the early mornings with a pit of fear in my chest.
I'd already witnessed so much work for the common good at the college as we cleared tree limbs, rescued errant pigs from our farm and mourned the loss of human lives. The bodies of several victims were retrieved on the banks of the river running through our campus in the Swannanoa Valley.
Each morning for a week after the storm, this community met outside the cafeteria to get marching orders for the day. At that time, most roads to the school were closed, only a few people had cell service, and our homes lacked power and drinking water.
But a retired electrician named Lightning tapped a well, providing non-potable water to flush toilets, and the college secured bottles of potable water. (It would be 54 days before our drinking water returned.)
These morning meetings gave us structure for putting our bodies to work in a time of climate chaos.
"Today we need folks to clean out the dorm fridges and others to haul tree limbs!"
Inspired by Her Students
My students are typically hard workers, but they showed next-level commitment, even the ones on "poop patrol," who hauled water to flush toilets. Because of their stamina, I worked even harder.
"I don't want to go home," my advisee told me after the week. "I want to stay to continue the clean-up."
"This storm has changed me and my ideas about the future."
Indeed, in my first-year course called Everybody's Environment, we had studied a curriculum called "Climate Wayfinding," with the goal of helping young people find their place in the broader climate movement. In class, we volunteered in a local garden that provides healthy produce to the wider community.
Through our exercises in class, one of my students on the mountain bike team realized he could harness his love for cycling to make a difference, encouraging others to bike as a sustainable form of transit. Another first-year student decided to join a group building affordable tiny homes in our region.
After the storm, a sophomore named Alex wrote about the significance of collaborating with others for climate justice: "I'd been under the impression that my actions would have to be large scale, and I would have to be revolutionary in the climate movement."
With hopes of working on the college garden, she'd seen the importance of the collective, even in a major climate disaster like a hurricane: "I find it ironic that we would have this first-hand experience with climate change," she wrote. "Though this experience has been hard, I am even more determined to continue my efforts in community-based environmental justice."
People Lost Everything
When roads reopened, the students went home for three weeks, returning to resume classes and finish the semester in person. During that first week back on campus, I touched base after class with those from the local area.
"I lost everything," one of my advisees told me. Her house was filled with mud, and she'd been able to save only a few of her possessions. "This storm has changed me and my ideas about the future. The only thing I want to do now is to help the greater community to recover," she said.

That evening, I made the five-minute drive to Beacon Village, a sharp contrast to the pastures around the college, even with our downed trees, eroded trails and broken fence lines. In this neighborhood, most houses had been submerged in water, while many businesses had floated down the river, the shells of the walls left standing as some altar or afterthought. But in the center of the small downtown area, World Central Kitchen had set up shop, and each day it fed people healthy food. This was the same organization providing food to Palestinians in Gaza and around the world when wars and disasters strike.
As I came to the front of the food line, the volunteer looked me in the eye with such compassion: "We are so glad you are here," he said. "Would you like greens with your sweet potatoes and mac and cheese?"
I'm not the first person to cry over a prayer or the offering of a meal from a stranger. But I had to wipe the tears with the sleeve of my hoodie before I held out my plate with both hands.
"Yes, I would love the greens," I said. "Thanks for all y'all do."
The Gift of This One Life
A block down the street, a young person played a fiddle next to a shuttered storefront. Two toddlers walked hand-in-hand with older siblings behind them. There were stacks of water bottles, diapers and snacks for the taking. This scene was an offering for our uncertain future, one where we have to build both kindness and connection, as hard as it can be, especially as our Presidential election has left us in turmoil.
As writer Ann Patchett said, "It seems possible to me that being alive is God, and that the trick is whether or not we know it." I refuse to look for silver linings in a storm fueled by climate pollution we could prevent. But my students, neighbors and strangers revealed to me that the gift of this one life, in its deep pain, is the love offerings we share with each other.

Mallory McDuff teaches environmental education at Warren Wilson College in North Carolina, where she lives on campus with her two daughters. She is the author of five books including "Love Your Mother: 50 States, 50 Stories, and 50 Women United for Climate Justice," published by Broadleaf Books. Read More