In the hours leading up to Hurricane Ian as well as throughout days of aftermath, I’ve received a much-appreciated inundation of concerned messages. “Are you okay? How are you doing? What’s it like down there now?”

Although our city survived relatively unscathed, seemingly divinely protected, the storm completely obliterated much of southwest Florida. Still unsure why our town evaded much of the destruction, my emotionally strained thoughts still resemble some misshapen form of survivor’s guilt as I continue to receive messages from friends who lost everything. Only God holds those answers, maybe even unanswerable until Heaven. I don’t know. But I do know it puts our community in a position to help others recover.

I realize many people currently face a long road ahead, filled with rebuilding, and temporary drastic lifestyle changes. To personally answer, “What was it like? How did you fare?” Well, for a first-timer weathering a Category 4, this storm affected us all to varying degrees.

It’s the sick feeling inside while preparing to evacuate. Deciding which family heirlooms to pack, swiping family photos off shelves, frantically packing nonperishable food, and lugging water jugs down the stairs.

It’s deciding which possessions truly matter, struggling to hear His reassuring voice, “Your home will be fine,” and clinging to pure raw faith as if your next breath depended on it.

Its questioning the game plan, then questioning it again. Should we shelter in place? Are the airports already shut down? Do we drive inland?

It’s the uneasy queasiness inside from watching newscasters speak of the brooding squall, menacingly gaining momentum and breadth while unpredictably changing directions. Will it hit us? Go north? South?

It’s the buildup of anticipation, feeling like a little child about to go to the doctor for painful shots.

Its wondering if the hurricane demolished our boat club, and whether that job still exists afterwards. Will I need to look for new work?

It’s the storm. Wind thundering like a freight train, torrential rain cascading down windows, palm trees with their fronds whipping mercilessly in the fury of it all.

It’s the aftermath. Stoplights hanging precariously, businesses boarded up, neighbors emerging bewildered, assessing fallen trees, limbs, and torn structures.

Its the collective effort of checking on each other, helping one another in the most large-scale collaborative efforts I’ve ever witnessed.

Its the relief. Walking slowly across our damp wooden docks at the marina, speechless. Everything intact. Protected. Preserved. How? I can’t even find words to pray. Tears effortlessly stream down.

Its carefully opening the front door, peeking inside, and breathlessly taking stock of minimal damage, scurrying about as if seeing my home for the first time with a realtor.  

It’s shoulders to lean on, shoulders to cry on, voices of familiar friends over the phone, and concerned family members willing to just sit and listen.

It’s cleanup, the therapeutic hard work as we give each vessel at our marina individualized care, attending to its scratches and debris as if tending to wounded hearts during prayer.

It’s praising Him for His goodness and protection, knowing no matter what the aftermath, I’d still be thanking Him, searching for some good in it.

And so, to answer many concerned messages, this hopefully illustrates a glimmer of what touched all our lives to varying degrees down here. And we will recover. We are strong. We are resilient. We will rebuild. We will help each other. And as the many billboard signs read right now, we are Florida strong.