By Carmen K. Sisson

CHALMETTE, La. — The nation spent Wednesday riveted by a live video feed of BP’s latest attempt to stop the geyser of oil infiltrating the Gulf of Mexico, but in Louisiana, sights were set on the heavens as residents gathered at First Baptist Church of Chalmette to pray. One by one, they stood and asked God for protection, guidance, comfort, and mercy. At times, they clung together so closely that they evoked images of the delicate reeds that are now in danger – frail, but not weak; bent, but not broken. Never, ever broken.

If hurricane Katrina was a lesson in survival, the Gulf oil spill is proving to be a trial of endurance. More than five weeks have passed since the Deepwater Horizon oil rig exploded, unleashing hundreds of thousands of gallons of crude into the Gulf, and still the flow is unstanched. In places like Grand Isle, La., and the Chandeleur Islands, the effects are just beginning to be seen – thick rivulets of oil bypassing protective booms, brown pelicans stained to black, crabs struggling to crawl, herons dying amid a toxic muck.

Chalmette, part of metro New Orleans, is fortunate. Located more than 100 miles inland, it is afforded some protection from the viscous onslaught. The town was not so fortunate during Katrina, a fact that was foremost on people’s minds Wednesday night.

June 1 marks the official start of the Atlantic hurricane season, and the oil spill brings added stress. If a hurricane comes, will it push the oil further ashore? Could the presence of oil in the Gulf raise water temperatures, resulting in stronger storms? As scientists and forecasters frenetically plot hypotheticals, residents along the coast watch, wait, and cling to what many say is the only thing of which they can be certain: the presence of a higher power guiding it all.

John Dee Jeffries, pastor of First Baptist Church in Chalmette, said in the surreal days following Katrina, the reality of God sustained. His home was gone. His church was gone. Ninety-seven percent of his congregation was scattered across the United States, the majority of which would not return. Whereas he had once prepared Sunday sermons for crowds of 500, suddenly he found himself standing at his lectern addressing 40.

“Life was so dark, so unfair,” he told the crowd of 100 who gathered in his newly built church Wednesday night. “I was filled with agony and loneliness. But every miracle in the Bible began with someone in a mess. We’re in a mess. It may be dark, the prognosis may not be good, but He’s still a miracle-working God.”

Other local pastors who spoke at the service echoed similar sentiments.

“Anybody can worship in a miracle,” said Derek Buchert, pastor of World Prayer Tabernacle in Chalmette. “Worship in a mess, and God will turn it into a masterpiece. Don’t give up. In your crisis, don’t give up.”

The question on many people’s minds, though, is this: How do you prepare for – and recover from – something you’ve never experienced? The Gulf Coast is no stranger to natural disasters, but a technological disaster of this magnitude is unprecedented.

“You don’t know what to do or what to expect,” said Chalmette resident Shelita Woods-Muse. “It’s almost as if someone took tar and threw it all over the place, and you’re left standing there going, ‘What do I do now?’ ”

Her key to survival is not only her faith, but also remaining positive and surrounding herself and her family with uplifting people.

Following Katrina, faith-based organizations proved to be faster and more effective in quickly getting aid to far-flung areas, and in this new ecological drama unfolding, the churches may once again play a crucial role in community outreach.

“In a crisis, your faith has to rise to a different level,” said Mr. Buchert after the service. “Churches have to go into disaster mode.”

In Chalmette, Katrina resulted in a stronger, more close-knit interfaith community. Before the storm, many of the pastors didn’t know one another. Now, they call upon one another regularly, praying together, sharing advice, and even blending their congregations, as they did for Wednesday night’s vigil.

Only time will tell if the oil spill has a similar effect. Earlier this week, a community meeting became heated as BP company officials, the Coast Guard, and representatives from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration fielded questions from residents and local politicians. Mr. Jeffries said even he grew frustrated.

“People on the coast are losing a whole way of life,” he said. “There are pockets of pain and almost existential fear. Like other people, we wonder, ‘What does this mean? What if they can’t stop it?’ But we can’t live in hypotheticals. God is not always the cause of calamities, but He can use them and turn something painful into something better than we can imagine.”

In the church sanctuary, dozens of flags hang, representing congregations that helped Jeffries’s church rebuild. Life is still hard in post-Katrina Chalmette, but Sunday morning, he will prepare a sermon for the 200 people who currently fill his church roster.

“I’ve seen God do so many wonderful, powerful things,” Jeffries said.

As BP’s battle rages on, the people of the coast fight an inner battle, hoping – and praying – the tide will turn.

NEW ORLEANS — The Gulf wind blows ceaselessly across weed-entangled lots in New Orleans, scattering autumn leaves across the concrete foundations where homes and businesses once stood but Hurricane Katrina scrubbed bare.

But that desolation will end, sponsors believe, thanks to an ambitious investment initiative — the Isaiah Funds, managed by Jewish Funds for Justice and sponsored by six key collaborators from the interfaith community.

A few miles away, neon lights flare to life in the French Quarter as tourists wander down the streets, mesmerized by the Southern charm and joie de vivre that has enthralled visitors for nearly 300 years. One of the city’s most iconic symbols, the streetcar, rumbles along Saint Charles Avenue, making a lazy loop through the central business district, past Loyola and Tulane, past majestic antebellum mansions resplendent with sweeping verandas and intricate patterns of century-old wrought iron.

The vitality of that part of the city will spread, thanks in part to the $4.5 million in loans and grants the Isaiah Funds has allotted for affordable housing, small business development, and coastal community centers.

Beneath a nearby Interstate overpass, a man crawls inside a tattered, sloping tent which serves as his only refuge from the rapidly falling temperatures. He’s not alone. Twelve thousand others will enact the same ritual tonight, some homeless before Katrina, others without anywhere to go afterwards. That desperation will give way to hope, thanks to organizations like the Gulf Coast Housing Partnership, a New Orleans-based real estate development company which seeks to build 10,000 new homes and bridge the gap between black and white, wealthy and poor, old and young.

There are jobs, but there aren’t enough. There is housing, but there is not enough. Yet there is growing optimism as well. There is progress, albeit slow, and there is a brighter future on the horizon, albeit distant. And there are volunteers here — people of all faiths, people from all walks of life — bonded by a common determination to bring this battered city, along with the entire Gulf Coast, back to life.

The Problem

It’s a daunting task. Hurricanes Katrina and Rita decimated 90,000 square miles in 2005, destroying 302,000 homes and leaving $150 billion in damage. More than 1.3 billion people were displaced, and for the ones who’ve returned, recovery is a slow, painful process made more difficult by governmental red tape and limited funds.

According to the Institute for Southern Studies, only $35 billion of the $116 billion appropriated by Washington has gone towards long-term recovery. More than half that money has yet to be disbursed. Less than half of the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s $11 billion in public assistance funds has been allocated to long-term recovery. More than 70 percent of that money remains in FEMA’s coffers. Without significant capital to back the region’s substantial needs, redevelopment remains stilted, dependent upon a slow trickle of funds some fear will be too little and arrive too late.

The Plan

Jeffrey Dekro, senior vice president of Philadelphia-based Jewish Funds for Justice, immediately saw the challenge when he and representatives from 14 other faith-based groups toured southwest Louisiana in March 2006. Six months after Katrina, the American Red Cross was just beginning to make its way into some of the outlying areas. Despite what he says was “a massive, beautiful, immediate cash response,” people were falling through the gaps. There was no money being set aside for capital investment and redevelopment. There was no money being set aside for the future.

He talked with his colleagues at JFSJ. He talked with Catholics, Baptists, Mennonites, and Jesuits. They’d all been a formidable presence along the Gulf Coast, providing cash as well as hands-on aid, but everyone agreed: Religious institutions had a unique advantage over commercial entities when it came to long-term recovery investments. They had time to wait for their investments to mature, and they sought a far greater return — social change.

An innovative plan emerged, one that’s believed to be the first of its kind. Six partners pooled their resources: Jewish Funds for Justice, a national public foundation specializing in faith-based community investing; CHRISTUS Health, a non-profit, faith-based health system; Jesuits of the New Orleans Province, a Jesuit Order serving the South; Highland Good Steward Management, an investment advisor for non-profit institutions; and MMA Community Development Investments, a community investment program by Mennonite Mutual Aid, with strong roots in the Anabaptist faith.

Together, these men and women with different beliefs but a shared goal are working to fulfill the prophecy of Isaiah 58:12: “You will restore the age-old foundations and be called repairer of the breach, restorer of the streets in which to dwell.”

The funding, which JFSJ manages and distributes via local financial institutions, is two-pronged: A Redevelopment Loan Fund to support neighborhood-based redevelopment through loans to non-profit organizations and community development financial institutions, and an Access to Capital Grants Fund, which supplements those loans to help faith-based organizations leverage investments and provides equity to stabilize the loan fund’s borrowers.

Isaiah Funds has raised $4.5 million in loans and grants so far and hopes to have $10 million invested or placed by the end of next year.

The Projects

JFSJ formally launched the Isaiah Funds initiative May 15, 2008, with its first loan — $500,000 to the Gulf Coast Housing Partnership (GCHP), which works with non-profit, for-profit, and public sector organizations to generate affordable housing and rejuvenate and rebuild Katrina-ravaged communities throughout Louisiana and Mississippi. Though they have projects in Biloxi, Miss., Hammond, La., and Baton Rouge, La., their efforts are concentrated in Central City New Orleans, attempting to reestablish employment opportunities and revitalize the tax base.

GCHP project manager Sara Meadows Tolleson says the swift response compared to conventional financing and grants makes the Isaiah Funds an important resource, one GCHP will use to procure land, pay redevelopment costs, and hire architects. She says those costs are much higher than anyone anticipated, but if more groups provided similar programs to the Isaiah Funds, the Gulf could recover sooner. As of today, 42,000 people still live in FEMA trailers, and one in 25 people in New Orleans is homeless.

“If you go to the Ninth Ward, there are (few) houses,” she says, “Huge swaths of the city are now vacant, blighted properties. We’re not close to finished.”

Still, Tolleson says, people are finding renewed hope through the work of a steady stream of volunteers who continue to pour in each week. She’s particularly excited about the development which sparked JFSJ’s interest and led them to make GCHP their first loan recipient: The Muses.

Where once there was an old grocery store and now there is nothing, there will eventually stand a 4.8-acre mixed-use commercial and residential development at the intersection of Felicity and Carondelet Streets, bridging two historic corridors — wealthier St. Charles Avenue and economically depressed O.C. Haley Boulevard. On one side, the commercial conveniences of drug stores, banks, and restaurants. On the other side, cultural performances, outdoor festivals, and art exhibits. In between, affordable housing featuring all the amenities, from energy-efficient appliances and free wi-fi connections to a dog park, play area, exercise room, and business center.

Their organization, too, is working with multiple faith partners, including Jericho Road Episcopal Housing Initiative, local Progressive and Missionary Baptist churches, and others.

The Partners

The partners behind the projects are seldom seen, but their impact is integral to the success of the Isaiah Funds. MMA Community Development Investments plans to provide up to $500,000 by next year, with additional investments to be considered later.

Kenneth George, national coordinator for National Ministries of the American Baptist Church (ABC), says his office gave a $100,000 grant to JFSJ, and American Baptist Home Missions made a $300,000 contribution.

For treasurer and loan committee member Michaele Birdsall, ABC’s participation was particularly meaningful. She grew up in the lower Ninth Ward and still has family in New Orleans. She was among the initial group who toured the city with Dekro, but it wasn’t her first trip post-Katrina. She’d come to New Orleans two months after the hurricane for a grim task — bringing her father-in-law to see the remains of his home.

“It looked like a war zone,” she recalls. “When outsiders come in, they think more progress has been made than actually has, because the outlying areas haven’t received the same level of help.”

She says faith-based organizations like ABC have a unique role to play in terms of redevelopment beyond bricks and mortar, particularly in making sure people on the margins get the help and attention they need, not just as a quick fix, but as a permanent solution.

“The degree of damage, physical as well as psychological, really takes people who are going to be committed to the long-term process,” she says. “We try to take a holistic approach. The Isaiah Funds is just one piece.”

But in a perplexing puzzle where sometimes the pieces are right but the fit is wrong, or the crucial elements are missing completely, every group plays a vital role in shaping the future of the Gulf Coast. With the new possibilities of the Isaiah Funds partnership, many say they believe a brighter picture is falling into place.

PEARLINGTON, Miss. – The live oaks that sprawl across the Southern landscape are like no other tree. Their trunks are massive, the limbs long and twisting, drooping to the ground, stretching to the sky, spreading to touch other trees. Most are hundreds of years old. Some thousands. They’ve seen floods, droughts, fires, hurricanes.

And still they survive, the wood growing harder, stronger, more resilient, through every trial they endure. In Pearlington, Miss., they’re everywhere, a fitting symbol for a town that refuses to die and 800 residents who bend, but will not break.

It’s easy to overlook Pearlington. There are no red lights to stop drivers as they cross the state line into Louisiana, no gas station to buy a Coke. There’s no tax base, no local government. It lacks the glitz of Biloxi or the quiet coastal beauty of Pass Christian. It is a forgotten place in the middle of nowhere, appearing briefly on the radar following hurricane Katrina and disappearing just as quickly.

With last week’s hurricane Gustav being touted as a relatively minor storm, and Louisiana again capturing the national spotlight, no one in Pearlington is waiting for aid, even though 100 homes were flooded or destroyed, some only months after being rebuilt following hurricane Katrina. Instead, residents wearily pick up their brooms once more, sweeping away the water and mud that covers almost everything in this battered corner of rural Mississippi.

In a town that’s less than 10 feet above sea level, it’s an almost yearly ritual, this cleanup and recovery, but residents never get used to it. Mark Evans and his wife, Janyne, have lost five homes and three businesses to the four bodies of water that surround Pearlington. This week, they’re removing Gustav’s calling card, showing up early and leaving late in an attempt to get their restaurant ready for business once more.

”We could move anywhere,” says Mr. Evans as he sits on a stool, a gold cane between his knees. In the background, his wife’s mud-splattered camouflage boots never stop moving. One minute she’s scrubbing garbage cans; the next, she’s offering ham sandwiches to the people who’ve stopped their own cleanup to congregate here, less for the food than for the company.

•••

Turtle Creek Bar and Grill, one of only three businesses in town, is the gathering place, the one spot where people can grab a bite to eat, find a friendly face, or rest a while and forget their problems. Evans says that’s the main reason he stays. He and his wife feel a deep attachment and grave responsibility to the people of Pearlington. The elementary school is gone, vanquished by Katrina. Many of their friends and neighbors are gone, discouraged by the destruction that seemed insurmountable.

But still they believe, drawing inspiration from the determination of their neighbors along the coast, who restored their communities following the devastation of hurricane Camille in 1969 and hurricane Frederic in 1979, and are just beginning to recover from hurricane Katrina three years ago. It isn’t easy. Evans gazes out towards Cowan Bayou as he talks about the three-story home he lost in 2002.

“It was built out of wood from a 200-year-old hotel,” he says. “Absolutely gorgeous. A one-of-a-kind home.”

Tedi Bega agrees. She remembers the way neighbors used to flock to the house when they caught the scent of a fish fry in the air or the sound of children racing up and down the stairs and tumbling on the lawn. Everyone was welcome. There are no strangers in Pearlington, only family and “adopted” family.

Hurricane Isadore filled the house with six feet of water, but Evans was undaunted. The waters would recede; the mud could be removed. Two weeks later, hurricane Lili erased that hope, sweeping the couple’s dream home away, leaving nothing behind but a few photographs.
“I loved that home,” Evans says. “It took the wind out of my sails for a few days.”

But he walked away and started life again, purchasing the restaurant and throwing himself into its success. “You don’t sit on your hands and cry,” he says. “You just go on.”

It’s a sentiment shared throughout the town. A stubborn faith that hard work will persevere and determination will triumph. A willingness to do whatever it takes to preserve a life residents say they’ve never found in larger cities.

Andy Collins greets the throng milling outside the restaurant, then takes his place as if he’s been here forever. He came to Pearlington three years ago and never left.
“It’s the people,” he says. “They’re a rare breed. They made me feel welcome from Day 1. We all stick together.”

Mr. Collins stayed in his trailer during Gustav before finally fleeing during the height of the storm. He shudders as he recalls watching the fetid salt water flow over the hood of his truck as he navigated his way past wind-lashed trees and floating logs to get to higher ground.

He’d just reached safety when he received a phone call – a friend in trouble, trapped in a house with his dog. He knew his truck was the only thing he’d have when the storm was over, so he left it on Highway 90 and swam to his friend’s house. He says there were times he was sure he would drown, but he kept going.

As he talks, more people arrive, and the air is filled with calls of “Ya’ll hungry?,” “Wanna Coke?,” and “Watch for snakes!” The Evanses are feeding everyone who shows up at the restaurant, just as they have after every hurricane.

Bill White arrives and three dogs rush to his truck to receive Milk-Bones he’s doling from the box he always carries with him. He’s known for taking in storm-stricken animals. Like everyone else, he shrugs it off. It’s just what you do. If you have something, you share it. If you need something, someone offers it. It’s life in Pearlington.

•••

Glenn Locklin joins what’s starting to look like a family reunion. His shirt is off and rivers of sweat roll down his sunburned back. Mr. Locklin, a Tennessee contractor, came to help Pearlington rebuild following Katrina. Three years later, he and his team of volunteers have built 47 homes here. Seven remain, but Gustav has created new work.

He won’t be going home anytime soon. A tattoo on the fourth finger of his left hand tells the story – an inked replacement of the wedding band he sold to buy building supplies, the symbol of love he relinquished to give a tangible reminder of the devotion he’s developed for these people. “Katrina was bad, but it was one of the best things that could happen to this town,” he says. “We know now we can make it.”

We. Not they, but we. Two letters that say everything about the depth of his feeling for the town. He climbs to his feet and heads to a house he’s building. Andy Collins returns to clean his flooded trailer. Janyne Evans drags yet another garbage can out for scrubbing. Mark Evans talks to a new set of men who’ve arrived for lunch.

Work resumes. Life goes on, even as another set of hurricanes marches forward in the Gulf.

Only a few lonely cars were heading west Sunday morning beneath a canopy of gnarled oaks along Scenic Highway 90 in coastal Mississippi. To their right, stark reminders of Hurricane Katrina — bare slabs where homes once stood, damaged streets which once led to vibrant downtowns, trees still festooned with insulation and tarpoleons meant to protect buildings that no longer exist. To their left, a steady snarl of traffic snaked its way eastward as residents from Louisiana and Mississippi fled the wrath of Hurricane Gustav, expected to make landfall as a Category 3 hurricane Monday morning southeast of Louisiana in Plaquemines Parish. At 6 a.m. EDT, the storm’s center was located about 85 miles south of New Orleans and was moving northwest at 16 mph, as powerful winds lashed the largely deserted Louisiana coast. These sustained winds of 91 mph (146 kph) and gusts of 117 mph (188 kph) were measured in Southwest Pass, Louisiana, around 4 a.m., the hurricane center said.

Things were a bit calmer Sunday, but Saturday night, barely controlled panic reigned as people flooded stores for supplies and took to the highways, slowing interstate traffic to a crawl. Steven Grabert, of Thibodaux, La., said he and his wife were alarmed when Gustav rapidly gained strength Saturday afternoon and were glad they left early — it took them six hours to make the 138-mile drive. With most hotels along the Mississippi coast filled to capacity early Saturday morning, weary travelers had no choice but to continue, hoping to find lodging farther north.

By nightfall, the few hotels that remained open filled quickly. In between fielding guests’ questions at Motel 6 in Gulfport Sunday afternoon, Victoria Hawkins said she was surprised only 67 of the motel’s 98 rooms were occupied, but it was a clear sign that people remember the harsh lessons of Hurricane Katrina three years ago and are taking the storm warnings seriously.

For everyone here, gas was another major concern as stations quickly ran out of fuel and began turning customers away. Ronald Aldridge, traveling from Hammond, La. with his family of eight, stopped at one of the few gas stations to rebuild in Pass Christian, Mississippi, which was devastated by Katrina and is still struggling to recover. Last time, the Aldridges fled to Lafayette, Louisiana, returning to find their home swept away. Today, they’re headed to Destin, Florida, hoping they fare better with Gustav. “It’s getting a little too close,” Aldridge said. “We didn’t want to stay through it this time.”

An estimated two million people have fled the coast, but some residents decided to wait it out, especially as forecasts shifted Gustav’s landfall farther west. Monica Spurlock, manager of the Pizza Hut in Waveland, Mississippi, brushed her hair back from her eyes and gazed at the Gulf as she filled five gallon containers with gas. She said she didn’t leave during Katrina, and isn’t leaving this time. Her employees, however, aren’t taking any chances. Only two of the 22-member crew elected to remain on call through the storm.

In Gulfport, many businesses boarded up and closed by 10 a.m., while others, including Wal-Mart, closed shortly after noon. The early closings caught most people by surprise and sparked a brief frenzy as people rushed from store to store, trying to find last minute items. Janette Mederos was among nearly 200 people who crowded into Fred’s, one of the few stores still open by 2 p.m. Though many shoppers were visibly frustrated to find empty shelves where batteries, candles, and flashlights once stood, Mederos took it all in stride, loading her cart with tiki torches and charcoal.

By late Sunday night, only a few cars remained on the highways in coastal Mississippi, but most people, like Aszlee Davis and her family, who traveled from New Orleans, had settled in for the evening. With her hotel door flung open, Davis relaxed on the balcony, enjoying the breeze as it occasionally gusted to a mild 15 mph. Still, she admitted she won’t sleep much while waiting for Gustav — she plans to keep an eye on the latest news updates. “You just don’t know where they’ll go,” she said. And so residents along the Gulf Coast watch, and wait, praying for the best and hoping against the worst in this still bruised, still storm-battered region.

Skies remained stormy and tropical storm force winds from Hurricane Gustav continued to pummel the three counties of the Mississippi Gulf Coast Monday night. A threat for isolated tornadoes remains, and a curfew, enacted Sunday at 10 p.m., will stay in place until the weather improves and damage-assessment teams can determine whether it’s safe for evacuated residents to return to their homes and businesses to re-open. But Gustav has certainly weakened and, as of 4 a.m. CT Tuesday, its top winds had dropped to 35 mph, making it a tropical depression after a long run as a hurricane, according to the National Hurricane Center.

Hancock County took a heavy hit from Hurricane Katrina, with cities like Pass Christian, Bay Saint Louis and Waveland almost erased from the map. Today, three years later, the county is still struggling to recover, and Gustav has dealt yet another devastating blow. County public information officer Jim Keller said this storm’s impact took them by surprise. “Wind damage is at a minimum, but we’ve got areas with 12 to 14 feet of flooding,” Keller says. “We were thinking eight or nine feet.”

Although people in low-lying areas were given a mandatory evacuation, Keller says several hundred chose to stay behind despite a cut-off time to change their minds. On Monday night, as winds continue to gust to 50 mph, three search teams are trying to reach residents in need of rescue. Food and ice distribution points are expected to be established on Tuesday. Still, the words on everyone’s lips are: “It wasn’t another Katrina.”

Jim Pollard, public information officer for neighboring Harrison County, says he remembers a chilling moment during Katrina when officials at Hancock County’s Emergency Operation Center — believed to be on safe ground — called him on the phone and told him the building was rapidly filling with water. “They all wrote numbers on their arms with indelible ink, then listed their names and numbers on a sheet of paper, put it in a Ziploc bag, and tacked it to the roof,” Pollard says. “We were taping final messages from them to their families.”

Pollard says it’s too soon to tell how hard his county — which has a population of 175,000 and encompasses the cities of Gulfport, Biloxi, D’Iberville, Long Beach and Pass Christian — was hit by Gustav. Teams are just beginning to assess the damage, and it will be several days before a real picture of the hurricane’s impact emerges.

In addition to Gustav’s 12-foot storm surge, rain has been heavy, and three rivers in Harrison County are expected to crest above flood stage tomorrow, further complicating matters. But Pollard says things went smoothly for the county thanks to good planning and a new initiative by the Mississippi Emergency Management Agency, which coordinated with the state department of education to transport 539 people by school bus to shelters in Jackson, Miss. at no charge. Late on Sunday night, the county opened nine area schools, bringing the total number of sheltered residents to just over 1,300.

In addition to new plans to protect the people of Harrison County, a new Katrina-inspired pet initiative also drew praise. Misty Velasquez, director of development for the Humane Society, said a pet-friendly shelter opened this year, sparing many animals the fate of those left behind following Katrina. In addition to the usual assortment of dogs and cats among the 44 animals being sheltered tonight, there are also rabbits, a parrot and a Gray-Banded King snake.

Officials in both Hancock and Harrison counties said they hope to allow residents to return to their homes soon but the situation remains too unstable at the moment to have an idea when that might be possible. “This event is ongoing, and we’re not out of the woods yet,” Pollard stressed. “We’re not going to send assessment teams out on a large scale until it’s fully safe.”

BAY SAINT LOUIS, Miss. – The silence stretches long and languid as the sun sinks in the Mississippi sky, painting the crowd in slivers of gold. In the distance, a gull calls out across the Gulf of Mexico. A man steps forward and pauses, staring up at the curly-haired actress coquettishly smiling down from the balcony. He drops to his knees on the cracked sidewalk, throws his arms open, and screams: “Stellaaaaaaa!”

Then with a self-conscious grin, he leaps to his feet and makes way for the next “actor” to intone the famous line from a “Streetcar Named Desire,” the play by Bay St. Louis favorite son Tennessee Williams, in the Stella-calling contest. On the contestant’s black T-shirt, three white letters catch the eye: B.L.T. – Bay St. Louis Little Theater. To his left, a tin sign leans against the yellow building, spray-painted words underscoring the greater meaning of today’s light-hearted event: The show must go on.

Hurricane Katrina drew the curtains on the theater, as well as on Bay St. Louis, two and a half years ago. But the arts community refused to let the lights dim, and today they’re helping revive a town in one of the rare success stories of post-Katrina life on the Gulf Coast.

Across the region, the hurricane’s imprint continues to be as somber as an Edvard Munch painting: damaged downtowns, destroyed neighborhoods, FEMA trailers serving – seemingly endlessly – as homes. But here in Bay St. Louis (pop. 8,000), arts mavens and tourists are returning, and homes and businesses are being rebuilt, helping to resurrect the economy and sharpen the community’s identity as a cultural hub.

The town, admittedly, has an advantage over many other communities along the Gulf Coast. Even before Katrina, it was a vibrant center for tourism and the arts – a Santa Fe of the South. Yet now artists from across the country are sending money and aid, which, along with infusions of federal cash, are helping the once-sleepy fishing village further reinvent itself and raising a provocative question: Can the arts rescue a town?

• • •

As you drive along the town’s main drag – a scant five miles – its raison d’être is apparent. Two towering columns on the newly constructed Bay St. Louis Bridge greet drivers, each featuring intricate etchings of shrimp boats and other scenes, supplemented by 22 mile markers bearing brass plaques with local artwork. The county hospital showcases hundreds of other pieces of art. The post office bears a historic mural. The library is stuffed with paintings and sculptures.

“I don’t know of another place more diverse in the arts,” says Gwen Impson, former president of The Arts, Hancock County, a group supporting more than 200 artists ranging from belly dancers to poets. “Art is more than decoration; it’s the soul of the community.”

That soul became crucial after Katrina. In a maelstrom of chaos, it provided comfort, direction, and cheer. There was no power, no phones. Artists were scattered across the country, their supplies gone, their galleries in ruins. Groups gathered on street corners, staging art shows by candlelight. But few buyers were thinking of anything beyond the day at hand. The nation’s eyes were focused on New Orleans.

As the smaller towns pondered whether to rebuild at all, the Bay St. Louis arts community hit the phones and computers, searching for artists and supplies. They asked galleries from New York to Los Angeles to exhibit their work. And everywhere they went, they put out the word: We’re still here. Come to Bay St. Louis. Come home.

Anita Gallagher, a watercolorist and printmaker, lost her home and studio in Katrina. She fled to nearby Ocean Springs. A grant from the National Endowment for the Arts and donations from artists nationwide helped her survive. Eventually, she and other local artists landed a showing at the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Ark. “Some of these artists were having to work morning, noon, and night so they’d have money to rebuild,” says Ms. Gallagher. “Little Rock was a big jumping point for them because they got national recognition.”

Other artists changed their styles. Lori Gordon was primarily a landscape painter before the storm. Afterward, faced with no supplies, only the battery-powered screwdriver her husband had escaped with, she started producing mixed-media artwork. She used refuse from the beach in her pieces. Suddenly, her work was showing in Seattle, New York, and San Francisco – and hanging on the walls of singer Faith Hill and former president Jimmy Carter.

“Katrina opened doors all over the country that wouldn’t have been open to me otherwise,” she says. “As difficult as Katrina was, and still is, it brought some really wonderful things not only to my life, but to others.”

Beth Carriere, executive director of Hancock County’s Tourism Bureau, believes the arts community is stronger now than it was before the hurricane because members are more tightly knit and well-known. City clerk Buz Olsen says this new recognition and income, along with federal and state funding – $300 million so far – has brought Bay St. Louis to 70 percent full recovery. Virtually every business in the city – more than 300 retail shops, restaurants, gas stations – were damaged or destroyed. But most have rebuilt. Life is slowly returning to normal.

“The arts community is changing the perception of our area,” Ms. Carriere says. “We’re not just a beach resort, or a historic fishing village, or a casino town. We’re all of these things, plus the arts.”

Beyond holding Bay St. Louis together, culture also bonds its people. Restaurant owner Steve d’Angelo says he quickly saw the role art could play in boosting spirits and rebirth. Though his business, Bay City Grille, was heavily damaged, he knew people needed laughter even more than nourishment. So he invited actors from the Bay St. Louis Little Theater to perform “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” to local patrons.

“We were just starting to serve food again, and emotions were high on all sides,” Mr. d’Angelo recalls. “Everybody was still lining up for water. That show was the first sign of life, and people needed that – a familiar place with a familiar scent – to begin healing.”

• • •

Rosemary Migliore slaps a maroon cap on her head as she approaches the balcony. “Stellaaaa!” Ms. Migliore calls, weeping as she throws herself to the ground in front of the century-old ivy-choked building that is the theater’s new home. Katrina ripped the roof from the building the theater had been using, flooding the interior and leaving it uninhabitable.

Now, thanks to state grants and the efforts of cast members, a new home is rising from the ruins. Inside, the two-story structure doesn’t look like much yet. The floors are plywood, the walls exposed studs. Cast members spent three whirlwind weeks removing debris from the building, which had stood vacant 40 years.

Theater president Cheryl Grace says it will take two years and close to $1 million to complete repairs. Meanwhile, they’re holding outdoor shows and dragging folding chairs inside to keep the stage alive. “When the theater was destroyed, I knew in essence it wasn’t, because we had all our memories,” says Ms. Migliore. “We had such great fun there. But it was only a building. The spirit was still alive.”

In 1946, Tennessee Williams settled in Bay St. Louis and wrote, appropriately, a one-act play, “This Property Is Condemned.” Twenty years later, Robert Redford and Natalie Wood came to do a movie version of the work. After Katrina unleashed her fury, no one could have guessed where Bay St. Louis would end up. But these days, no one’s dwelling on the past. There are canvases to be filled, clay to be shaped, plays to be performed. An entire city is restless. The show must go on.

PEARLINGTON, Miss. – Eighteen candles will adorn the birthday cake, but Glenn Locklin won’t be there to see his oldest daughter make a wish. Instead, he’ll be standing on a muddy patch of land 500 miles away, making dreams come true for another family, rebuilding hurricane-ravaged lives while putting his own life on hold. With great love comes great sacrifice – one he’s made without question. His wife and daughters make their own sacrifice. And so it goes for families all over the country, separated not by Katrina’s wrath, but by the compassion that grew in her wake.

Mr. Locklin, a burly, soft-spoken contractor from Tennessee and project manager for the charity organization One House at a Time, has been in Pearlington, Miss., since January 2006, leaving his wife, three teenage girls, and a thriving business to fulfill what he says is his Christian duty: rebuilding homes in the rural town, population 1,684 before the storm, hovering around half that now. No tax base remains, just 200 square miles of blacktop snaking through wooded scrubland bejeweled with Spanish moss. Many residents are elderly. Nearly a third are disabled. Strong hands like Locklin’s have been vital to recovery. He works seven days a week, 10 hours a day. Every two months, he goes home for a visit. No matter how hard it gets, he returns.

He’s not alone. State officials estimate as many as 500,000 people have come to provide hands-on assistance since Katrina. The federal government has provided relief money – some $26 billion to Mississippi alone – but it’s the hearts and hands of everyday people that are putting storm-torn lives back together.

Kris Locklin, Glenn’s wife, says the family is committed to the cause, even more so after spending Thanksgiving here and seeing the devastation – and progress – firsthand. Still, it’s hard. Discipline and grade problems have surfaced at home. Their middle daughter is transitioning from home schooling to her freshman year in public high school. Their 12-year-old is struggling emotionally. As for Mrs. Locklin, she’s given up a lot of things she used to enjoy because there’s not enough time. Always fiercely independent, she’s become more so, learning to repair the lawn mower and toilet. The family goes on, which is both reassuring and painful.

“He comes home and feels like he doesn’t belong here because we’ve developed our own system without him,” she says. “He goes back down there and feels like he doesn’t belong because he doesn’t. I listen to him cry on the phone, and I can’t comfort him. Those are the hardest times.”

And yet he says he has no choice but to be here. “When I got down here, it changed everything,” he says. “It got personal. I know these families. I know the circumstances. I know the pain. The main goal is to get them back in their homes.”

So far, his group – a charity run by the Hope Center Fellowship church in Hendersonville, Tenn. – has completed 16 houses. They are humble, 1,200-square-foot cottages that can be constructed from the ground up in less than a month. It takes about 60 volunteers and $30,000 to complete one house. At the moment, Locklin has the hands but lacks the funds. He trades and borrows materials from other volunteer groups – some 45 relief organizations in a local coalition that share resources and information. While Locklin waits for donations to trickle in, he renovates houses that were damaged and finishes projects on houses they’ve already built.

The experience has changed him. “I used to always want – go to Wal-Mart and buy stupid things,” he says. “It’s taught me how to live better, but it’s also very satisfying to help people.”

***

It’s the middle of nowhere and the hour is nothing, a sliver of time dutifully noted by the alarm clock’s efficient blue glow. It’s surprisingly cold here in Pearlington, and the volunteers burrow more deeply into their bunks, grateful for the woolen blankets that stave off the chill. In the darkness, shadows rise and fall, punctuated by soft groans as worn bedsprings do what they can to help tired shoulders. This isn’t the Four Seasons, but as far as volunteer camps go, this wooden bunkhouse is luxury accommodations, a home away from home.

The scrape of clay-caked Timberlands on the bunkhouse floor announces the latest arrivals – a father-son team from Dansville, N.Y., here to spend a week building houses with Locklin’s group. Next week, fresh volunteers will arrive, some armed with little more than goodwill.

The relief groups have made a difference. Jim Nelson, Mississippi’s assistant secretary of state for business regulation and enforcement, says in many cases nonprofits have trumped bureaucracy in speed and efficiency. “In the early days after the hurricane, the federal government was disorganized,” says Mr. Nelson, whose office oversees every charity registered in the state – including 94 different Katrina groups. “The charitable groups were able to get into the coast more quickly and hit the ground running.”

Partly it’s a matter of roles. The federal government provided long-range funding as the state government focused on economic redevelopment, but nonprofits excelled in providing immediate needs such as food, water, clothing, and shelter. While trailers provided by the Federal Emergency Management Agency sat idle, regulations preventing their use until lots were cleared and utilities restored, volunteers stood beneath a sweltering Mississippi sun, cutting swaths through fetid underbrush and swarms of mosquitoes to get the job done.

“Charities and the work they have done and continue to do … are so significant that it’s difficult to find words or measurement,” says Bryan McDonald, head of the governor’s Office of Recovery and Renewal.

***

Dawn comes early, a haze of hot coffee tempering the shock of frigid outdoor toilets. One by one, the volunteers gather around a campfire to pray and discuss the day ahead. Three projects are under way: an addition to provide an elderly couple with more living space, electrical work on a nearly completed house, and joining two houses together for a seven-generation family. In addition, Locklin is working on a personal project: renovating Tim and Jackie Blackwell’s four-bedroom brick home.

Mr. Blackwell, an ROTC teacher at the local high school, admits he was hesitant to accept Locklin’s help. Insurance paid off his mortgage but left him with studs and a concrete slab. Still, he felt more fortunate than his neighbors. He was at least physically able to rebuild. Silently, he trudged to his classroom each day, working on his house in the evenings. One thing became apparent: He was in over his head. “I liked to piddle in the workshop, but I’d never done anything of this magnitude,” Blackwell says. “When I looked at it, I knew it wasn’t right, but I didn’t know how to fix it. Glenn pretty much took the hammer away and said, ‘You’re dangerous with this.’ ”

He laughs, but becomes serious when he remembers the days of being alone, struggling with thoughts of suicide. He believes the volunteers have done more than just build houses – they’ve saved lives. Alan Rudisill, a maintenance manager from North Carolina, echoes other volunteers when he says it’s a simple matter of doing the right thing. “This community needs help, and the Lord has blessed me to come be a part of it,” he says. “I wish I could do more.”

Here, as it is all along the Gulf Coast these days, progress is distilled into tangibles and intangibles: A board that fits. A roof that’s finished. A word that comforts. A hand that helps.

At the end of the day, as the sun sinks low in the Southern sky, it means everything.