August Storyteller: When Loss is Gain, A Katrina Story
- Merry Sorrells
- Aug 27
- 6 min read
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It was a few days after Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and this photo shows our beloved dogs just after the disaster struck. Cheerio is sitting closest to the camera on the left, and the young golden retriever sitting up on the seat, smiling, was our pup, Brady. They had been boarding at a local animal hospital when the levees broke and were taken by bus to the LSU AgCenter in Baton Rouge, where their guardians were National Guard troops. Cheerio, an older dog, wasn’t enjoying the experience, while our younger dog, Brady, was loving the adventure. This photo was featured in the L.A. Times and was sent to us by a friend who recognized our pups. This was their Katrina adventure. So much of life was upside down.
Dear Community of Friends,
Katrina—it marked us. Some might say it saved us, while others say it ruined us. Those of us who went through it share an unintended bond. Those who didn’t may never fully understand.
The way I see it, Katrina demanded a choice from all who were impacted—move forward with purpose—or sit, justifiably derailed, staring into the wreckage. Before moving forward, we each needed to take stock. Like sailors, we needed to orient ourselves with a compass in the middle of the ocean, getting our bearings and searching for the next steps.
Our world went from a symphony of bright and living sounds and colors—with a familiar blend of scents—to a sepia-shaded, noxious, empty landscape. And the music died. The fragrant bouquet of smells that was distinctly New Orleans soon became a stench that insulted our nostrils. The days and weeks spent underwater sucked the color from everything it touched, and a dull achromatic city confronted our eyes. The life we returned to was disorienting.
Mercifully, our family home was minimally impacted by the winds and the flooding, and because we were “spared” we became woven into the multi-faceted backbone in which the rebuilding was founded. My husband, Kim, and I were allowed back into the city soon after the storm subsided. Kim had a special pass to re-enter because he was a bank executive, and I had the same as a school administrator. Schools and banks were essential for the city to reopen. We were among the first to return to an altered world overflowing with chaos and destruction.
Having been admitted back early, we found ourselves helping our friends by surveying their homes to report on conditions. Most had only seen their homes in satellite photos taken from the sky. There was very little to be seen from up above. I remember all too well tiptoeing through muck to peer through the windows of the home of a friend and colleague, and quietly breaking the news that the furniture was floating, the pictures knocked from the walls, and the refrigerator on its side, moving gently with the wafting of the water. Still, they wanted to come home, and like so many others, we offered to share our home because we found ourselves lucky enough to have a home to come back to. Though deeply grateful, the opportunity provided little consolation to those who lost everything. The survivor’s guilt we felt as we stared into the faces of our friends and loved ones who lost their homes and all their possessions was near unbearable. So, we did everything we could do and welcomed them in.
The city was closed tight. Schools, stores, homes, and businesses were all without power and without people. The school yards became helipads as army tanks patrolled the neighborhoods. The national guard kept the peace and kept down the looting. Cell towers were down, making communication impossible. Curfews were imposed, and churches remained shuttered. There were no children, no schools, no playgrounds. The future looked very bleak.
And then, finally, bit by bit, the inevitable happened. The water began to recede and yield to damp walls and water marks. Hope, plus a million prayers, cracked open the darkness, and light began to overpower it. Music became our universal language once again. Life and color returned to our neighborhoods. Neighbor helped neighbor. Friend supported friend. Power trucks from around the country poured into the city. Volunteers from around the world slept on cots and floors in our churches to spend weeks upon end planting seedlings, tearing down and repairing walls, and painting the color back onto houses. One by one, family by family, people started returning. Every time a family member, friend, or colleague returned we fell into each other's arms as though we hadn’t seen each other in years. Every time a store or business opened the word spread and our little world celebrated. Our homes became our offices. We were determined to rebuild.
There were hundreds of schools in the neighborhoods, but no teachers, no staff, and many were flooded or damaged. Because there were so few children, our schools had to lay off most of the teaching staff, and many teachers had no homes to return to. The families of New Orleans were scattered around the country, but those who were back to rebuild needed places for their children to learn. Along with the slow return of New Orleanians came the need for our schools to open. But, how?
Like trees in a forest after a devastating fire, peeking through the ashes and beginning to bud again, the unimaginable happened. Three of our schools started pulling together to create one united school. Though formerly competitors, and the unlikeliest of partners, we pooled our resources—our faculty, staff, administrators, supplies, buildings, and students—and formed one small, hardy school. We named it St. Truman, a combination of St. Paul’s, Trinity, and Isidore Newman. Not only were we stronger together, but we also became unstoppable. What I can tell you is that the amount of love, talent, and devotion that poured into this one little school stretching across town over two campuses gave us all the hope we needed to see and know that the future would one day be bright again. We were unlikely partners who will never forget the bond we formed to do what we do best—teach and comfort children. Though we were only open for a few short months, St. Truman provided a bridge which allowed families to come home together. It offered a promise of hope. The children brought joy and life back into our lives and our city, and they gave us a purpose and hope.
New Orleans slowly healed, and though it will never be quite the same, parts of it will never change. It’s those parts that we fought so tenaciously for; catching throws at Mardi Gras parades, enjoying Jazz Fest in the rain, walking along the levee, slow steamy summers, stormy nights, crawfish boils, front porch concerts, the Saints, and friends young and old that play together, feast together, and dance together. That’s what made this city worth fighting for. And fight we did!
It has been twenty years, and the scars remain. The memories of that place in time have faded, but they will never be forgotten. New Orleanians are proud. We love our city with a fierceness that cannot be matched. The legacy of rebuilding together and the bonds we formed together became a covenant between us to never let go of the fire we feel and the love we share for New Orleans.
Katrina helped us prove that “God is good, and loss is gain.”
“…and fear no ill,—since God is good, and loss is gain.”* The words of this poem, titled The Mother’s Evening Prayer. were written by Mary Baker Eddy.
Thank you for being a part of my story.
Until next time,
Merry
Listen to the latest Storyteller LIVE podcast now! Join me for a new episode with my dear family friend, Erin O'Brien. Erin and I discuss the May 2025 Storyteller “Where Love Grows: A Story About a Lifelong Friendship.” During our conversation, we discussed the profound love, heartbreaking loss, and quiet strength it takes to move forward after losing someone. A poignant moment from that story centers on a beautiful note Erin had delivered to me on her wedding day—just before she walked barefoot up the aisle. You don't want to miss it.
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Did you read the July Storyteller? If not, now's your chance. In this story, I share how what was meant to be a gentle transition out of my role as Head of School became an unexpected beginning as Interim Middle School Principal. Two days before graduation, when the new Principal couldn’t step in, I chose to fill the gap—daunted but determined. Like a bike ride gone off course, the shift was unsettling at first, but with faith and trust in the purpose of change, I embraced it as a chance to learn, adapt, and grow. Read it now.
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