Ryan Mitchell is a teacher in Henderson County Public Schools, south of Asheville. These are some of his reflections as he and his community recover from Hurricane Helene.

Friday, Oct. 4, 9:30 a.m.

“Dad, when are we going back to school?” 

How do you answer a question that has no real answer? We sit here, both equally aching for the familiar comforts of the school building: the friends, the routine, and the joy that fills classrooms. When I look at the world around us, now clouded in uncertainty, it’s hard to imagine when we’ll recapture the normalcy that school provides for so many. Even thinking that we might return in the coming weeks is impossible while we are living day-to-day. I can barely think of tomorrow, much less weeks from now. 

I spend my days distributing supplies waiting for the answer to her question. 

Wednesday, Oct. 8, 10:30 a.m. 

As I am driving to a school, I pass by home after home that has their entire insides moved to the side of the road. These people have lost everything due to flooding and now it sits for the world to see. I am like the houses: completely gutted. Everything that these people have ever worked just sits in a pile. The feeling of grief and gratefulness is a train that won’t stop. 

Wednesday, Oct. 8, 11:00 a.m. 

Dana Elementary is hosting an event for their students and families where they can come enjoy a meal, see their teachers and pick up water, food, clothes and other supplies.

Each of the supplies has a story, coming from all over the country to our rural community. Every shirt, case of water, and can of food comes from a place of care and concern. 

As I sit sorting through clothes, I look at a tag and my former student’s name was written there in Sharpie. This connection goes deeper than just a piece of clothing. It is a symbol of what has been happening since Helene arrived, the people in our community helping each other even though they are in pain themselves. 

From the very first minute of the event, it is beautiful.

I watch a student run to hug their teacher. The embrace is full of emotion for which there are no words for.

Families arrive to receive items of support. Many different languages are being spoken, but there is no trouble understanding the language of love and the dialect of joy.

Principal Amy Cleveland, Assistant Principal Tim Fendley, and their staff demonstrate that schools are the beating heart of a community, a comforting place where people can gather, be nurtured, and enjoy fellowship. The school has transformed into a sanctuary, a place of refuge and rebuilding for all those in need.

In the middle of the event, we all receive the same text message: “Students will return to school on Tuesday, October 15th.” 

Amy Cleveland reads this message over the microphone for everyone to hear. Screams and shouts of euphoria ring around. The rhythm of normalcy is syncing into place. It is as if the volume on the radio was turned up, the windows are down and everyone in the neighborhood is singing along.

And my daughter finally has an answer to her question. 

Friday, Oct. 10, 10:00 p.m. 

For the first time, I am able to watch the news, and the devastation across our beautiful part of our state is more extensive and widespread then I even imagined during our time in isolation. Feelings of guilt and grief wash over me, a reminder of the complex and nuanced nature of human emotion. 

Despite the fact that news reporters are speaking, I hear nothing. It is just silent. Coping with the trauma of an event like this challenges your deepest personality traits. My positive and upbeat demeanor struggles to stay rooted just like the trees during the storm. The influence of the circle of friends around me keeps me grounded.

I watch the next segment which is about how neighbors organized efforts to get supplies to those who cannot get out. Click. The unmute button inside my brain is hit,and I am hearing the melody of our community. 

Helene has taught us so many lessons. Ones that will stay with us for the rest of our lives. Ones that will be shown throughout our region for the next century. 

Tuesday, Oct. 15, 8:00 a.m. 

Students return. 

Today has that first day of school feeling. Everyone has butterflies and feels the excitement. 

As children enter the building the sense of relief and happiness is contagious, a harmony of resilience that connects us all. 

As a kindergartener walks by me she says, “I’m blessed. It didn’t flood. I’m blessed. It didn’t flood.”

This chord of gratefulness is the bridge that links us together. We all weathered the same storm, although in different ways. Yet we stand, not fallen and broken like the trees around us but full of life and purpose, moved forward by the unwavering support of our network of caring people. 

One of the first grade classes depicts their experiences through art. They say that art makes you feel, and this art is moving my soul. Seeing these drawings of trees fallen on houses, water inside homes and the faces of 6-year-olds in tears is so raw and emotionally charged that you can feel the honesty and pain jump off the page.

Going through the storm as an adult, seeing the devastation firsthand is one thing, but seeing a hurricane through the lens of a child is humbling. As an educator, this makes me want to make it so they never have to feel this type of pain again. To create an environment where they can escape the hurt that currently surrounds them. Helene changed entire worlds, but she didn’t alter the kinds of spaces educators want to establish for their students. 

I walk in a second grade classroom and greet a student. The seven-year-old looks at me and says, “I rode in a helicopter. The soldier picked us up. I got to wear yellow earbuds, and they dropped us off at a shelter. The shelter was really a school, and they gave us food and water.” 

The school was a shelter, aren’t they always?

Local public schools are a safe haven. A source of consistency for the community. Whether they are a distribution site, a shelter or an educational institution, local public schools everywhere will meet the needs of all students. Forever and always. 

Just because we are back at school doesn’t mean we are healed. Our path to recovery is only beginning.