Disaster Houston Style
In the mid-1970s, I relocated to Houston, Texas. I had never set foot in Texas before. This was my first experience living in a big city, and I found it both intimidating and exciting. I interviewed with several banks and was offered a position with Houston Citizens Bank and Trust, located right in downtown Houston. I was thrilled with myself for landing a job so quickly.
After adjusting to the roaches that emerged from the faucets and scurried back into the walls the moment I turned on the kitchen light, I slowly settled into my new surroundings. My biggest challenge, however, was the ever-changing weather.
During my first year in Houston, we had a hurricane, a tropical storm, snow, and a major ice storm. When it rained, the force of the downpour could actually snap my umbrella shut. The humidity transformed my normally straight hair into curls I had never sported before.
On the first day of the tropical storm, the city was hit with an unbelievable amount of rain. Streets flooded quickly, and we were all advised to take shelter downtown for the night. My normal commute to the suburbs was about 30 minutes, but as we stood at the large windows on the main floor, it was clear none of us were going anywhere.
Fortunately, the building had a wonderful club and restaurant on the top floor. We filled the place and decided to “take lemons and make lemonade,” as the saying goes. I admit, we had a great time until the reality set in that we would be spending the night at the bank. We each claimed a piece of furniture to serve as a bed. I don’t remember much about trying to sleep, except that I didn’t get much of it.
The next morning came early, and the weather showed no signs of improving. The thought of spending a second night there was out of the question. I felt grimy, had no makeup, and my clothes were wrinkled. I got through the day by reminding myself that everyone else looked and felt just as worn out as I did.
When the doors were finally locked for the night, I gathered my things and headed to the parking garage. By the time I reached my car, my feet were soaked, and all I wanted was a hot shower and my own bed. I drove an Oldsmobile Toronado, considered a large vehicle at the time, and convinced myself its size would keep me safe.
As I started my drive home, I held tightly to the steering wheel. The roads were slick, and patches of standing water appeared here and there. The atmosphere felt eerie and forbidding. I even considered turning around and going back to the bank, but I kept going.
Traffic in town and on the highway was heavy and slow. What was normally a quick trip had already taken over an hour when, suddenly, everything came to a standstill. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and up ahead I could see a wide stretch of standing water. Drivers were inching through one by one. I watched carefully, studying who made it and who stalled. The smaller cars struggled. The bigger ones seemed to push through by going slowly and steadily.
When my turn came, I put the car in the lowest gear and crept forward. My hands were shaking. I didn’t want to stall out and end up stranded on the highway. As I eased through the water, I noticed a thin trickle seeping in through my driver’s side door. But I kept going, and with God as my co-pilot, I made it through.
The rest of the trip was still treacherous, but after two and a half long hours, I finally pulled into my carport. I don’t think I had ever felt so grateful. I was safe, my car was secure, and I was home. The voices in my head accused me of being reckless, but I ignored them and headed inside for a quick dinner and bed. As I began to relax, I found myself humming “Jesus Take the Wheel.” Home had never looked so good.
That night taught me something I’ve carried ever since: sometimes you don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re already in the middle of the storm. Whether it’s flooded streets, a new city, or a life you’re still figuring out, courage shows up when you keep moving forward, even with shaking hands. And once you finally pull into the safety of “home,” whatever home means at that moment, you realize you were stronger than you thought all along.
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