Remembering My First Mission Trip

Helping families recover, connecting with communities, and learning the true meaning of service.

It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years since Hurricane Katrina. 

I remember being terrified as it was starting to grow in the Gulf—my dad was trying to get home from a mission trip, and I couldn’t stop worrying about him. Once it made landfall in Louisiana, I was glued to the news, watching the devastation unfold. But nothing could have prepared me for the first time I drove into Houma a month later. 

Furniture, belongings, shrimping boats—even caskets—scattered everywhere. Seeing it in person was something I’ll never forget.

This was my very first mission trip, and I quickly learned it wasn’t about having all the answers—it was about showing up. 

Our group spent the week helping in any way we could: cleaning out mud-filled garages, hauling tree limbs, putting tarps on roofs, and bleaching homes.  One of the first tasks I remember clearly was helping gut a bathroom that had been completely flooded.  Not glamorous work, but every piece we tore out was a step toward a fresh start for the family.

We met so many incredible people along the way. One local fisherman proudly showed us his shrimping boat. For weeks it had to be tethered to what shore there was until it could be checked by the insurance company.  So many boats had floated inland during the storm flooding.  One had floated right up next to the road, its name painted clearly: "God's Gift".

Most of our days were full of physical work.  Hauling out belongings from homes, scrubbing kitchens that had been underwater, moving whatever we could to the roadside… it was hot, heavy, messy work. But it was also deeply rewarding.

Even in the middle of hard work, there were little moments of joy. One night, as our way of saying "thanks" to those taking care of us, our group decided to host a "Canadian dinner" for some of the church and community members.  We carefully planned out a menu featuring some foods they hadn't had.  The menu was: ham, scalloped potatoes, poutine (of course!), Caesar salad, peaches with cottage cheese and cherry cheesecake.  For the special evening, a friend and I dolled up with Mardi Gras beads for a group dinner—my favourite had a tiny crawfish on it!

What I remember the most...

Through it all, what stayed with me most wasn’t the mud or the sweat—it was the people. We helped the church congregation we were staying with, but also families who weren’t part of the church. And that’s when I really understood what it means to be the hands and feet of Christ: showing love, offering help, and standing alongside people when life feels impossible.

I still think of the woman who loved high heels, the fisherman and his boat, the kids who pulled us into a football game being played in the field behind the church, and the church family who shared meals and worshiped with us. Their hope in the middle of loss taught me as much as I ever gave.

Twenty years later, I may not see those faces anymore, but I smile every time I remember them. 

That trip reminded me why serving, listening, and connecting with people matters so much—and how even small acts of love can shine God’s light in dark times.