Our next guest blogger, The Rev. Denise Tracy, is the president of the Coalition of Elgin Religious Leaders, a police chaplain, a mentor for U46 and a retired Unitarian Universalist minister. As I write this, Elgin has just gone through a heavy thunderstorm, a tornado watch and a flash flood warning. The choir at Congregation Kneseth Israel practiced tonight in an interior hallway. But note carefully the date here. Tonight is the 60th anniversary of the flood the story is about…

In August 1955 there were 17 days of rain. As Hurricane Diane moved up the eastern coast on Aug 18, it dumped 13 inches of water on the State of Connecticut. Our family lived on a small river and three times in August we were evacuated for fear of dangerous flooding. On the night of Aug 18th my Dad drove my mother, sister and me to an overnight baby shower in Hartford. He returned to our home to help sandbag and keep watch.

He built a fire, and fell asleep after a busy evening. Up stream the dam at Barkhampstead Reservoir was threatening to burst. A decision was made to release water to relieve pressure. This decision would impact those who lived on our street.

The train trestle that ran across the end of our neighborhood trapped the water, which rose 13 feet in 35 minutes. My sleeping father was awakened by our dog. The water pressure was already too high for him to exit through the doors. He broke the living room window and jumped, with our dog, into the rising flood waters. As he swam, he looked back to see our home lift off its foundation and collapse. In the moonlight there was still smoke was drifting out of the chimney. The dog led him to higher ground.

Eleven people died on our street that night. My Father walked to safety. He joined in the efforts to rescue others. He neglected to tell the Red Cross that he was a victim. His name was on the list of the missing.

We had nothing. My mother, pregnant with her third child had me and my one year old sister. She began her search for my father. She went first to her church. She knocked on the parsonage door. Her clergyman came to the door. My mother explained that she needed some help. He said he was sorry and closed the door. She started to cry.

As we turned to leave, we saw across the green, at my Father’s church, there was much activity. We walked there. We found a soup kitchen, a clothing depot, women were caring for children so their parents could do necessary things, like find housing, figure out what to do since the bank had been washed away. We were enfolded, by people who lived their faith, by being both God’s arms and heart. A caring community of faith in action.

Four days into this ordeal we were reunited with my Father. I can still feel my arms around his boney knees as held my Mother and sister.

When you are poor, you stand in line. You wait your turn as you pray for help. One day we were waiting in a line when a woman came into the social hall of the church. She was holding a roasting pan. She surveyed the line. She smiled and walked towards my mother. “You will need this for Thanksgiving.” She handed my mother the pan and walked away.

That pan came to symbolize hope that our lives would be better. That pan was on our Thanksgiving table every year from that moment forward. When I bought my first house my mother gave me the pan and said. “Use it well.” And I have.

Community can be a congregation uniting to respond to a situation where there is need or one person helping another. I know that my life was changed by both. I also know that I will always be thankful. I do not know the names of those people who helped us in the basement of the church nor do I know the name of the woman who gave us the roasting pan. I just know every Thanksgiving when I make my stuffing in that pan, I say a prayer for the hands and hearts that helped.

The Rev. Denise Tracy