Six years ago yesterday, while much of Louisiana slept or waited anxiously in the darkness, Hurricane Laura made landfall near Cameron in Cameron Parish.

The storm rolled in at approximately 1 am on August 27, 2020, carrying maximum sustained winds of 150 mph. A powerful Category 4 hurricane, Laura became the first storm of that strength known to strike Southwest Louisiana and one of the strongest hurricanes ever to make landfall anywhere in the state, devastating large portions of Louisiana.

By August 28, many residents, perhaps still running on adrenaline, were beginning to sober up to the destruction before them.

After ravaging Cameron Parish, Laura set its sights on Calcasieu Parish and Lake Charles. It was an absolute monster, tearing roofs from buildings, uprooting trees, and destroying the electrical infrastructure. Blue tarps on people’s homes could still be seen for months and months after the storm had passed. The Capital One Tower, its blue glass stripped away across numerous floors, became one of the storm’s most recognizable images. Because of the damage from Laura and Delta that followed, the tallest building in Lake Charles was finally imploded in 2024.

Schools were closed for weeks—I didn’t return to my classroom until September 21. But while out of sorts and out of a home for that time, it did provide me the blessing of three unexpected weeks with my parents—

Only months before my mother died.

I don’t say any of that to romanticize Laura or minimize the suffering endured by people who lost homes, livelihoods, and loved ones. Yet, tucked inside a terrible event no one would ever want, God allowed me a blessing whose significance I could not yet understand. Even though Mama had been sick for years, you just never know. She could’ve gone on for years more still, as strong as she was. It turned out that by the time Laura hit, that time was running through the sieve already.

When I drove through Lake Charles on September 20, returning on an ominous Sunday night before I reentered the classroom the following morning, parts of the city looked like a war zone. There was still practically no one on the roads. Without normal lighting or the familiar buzz of a city, normal places you take for granted seemed darker, even spookier—maybe even evil in a way. Buildings had been ripped open, debris could still be seen scattered in some places and piled in others, and the typical signs of the civilization you come to expect seemed to have vanished.

To sound like some of the students I once taught, seriously, it was weird.

Mother Nature really can have her way in an ominous fashion, reminding us how quickly the world we live in every day can transform into something otherworldly.

As we discussed in this space recently while remembering Katrina and LSU football, we know neither the day nor the hour. It should be a bit terrifying by now, as often as most of us have been through these storms. Hurricanes such as Laura are terrible, and no, not even a profound spiritual lesson should be used to diminish the pain associated with them. They can, however, awaken those of us kept alive to spread the wisdom that it is foolish to presume anything in this life, not even tomorrow.

When the power goes out, the cars stop rolling, and the background noise no one ever notices goes deafeningly silent, life becomes quiet and still enough to expose how little about anything important we really control. It is usually amid that very silence and suffering—during our own personal Good Fridays—that we find an opportunity to listen sincerely—sincerely—to God.

Six years later, I remember Laura’s destruction in both Lake Charles and my life. I also remember three unplanned weeks with my mother—and the mercy hidden inside time I didn’t yet know would be so beautiful.

Thank you for reading The Hayride!