In the wake of Hurricane Helene, people across the mountains did what they could: planting, building, repairing, creating. These are stories not of grand gestures but of small acts that became the scaffolding of recovery. Read about those who came together to support each other.

When we crept out of our basement on the morning of September 27, 2024, we weren’t prepared for what we saw. My wife, Judy, and I have lived in the same house in Fairview for 30 years. Ours is part of a small neighborhood of 20 or so homes set deep in the woods on narrow one-lane roads. We’ve experienced hurricanes before and seen what they can do. But this …

We walked outside to see our familiar world turned upside down — and shaken for good measure. A quick count showed at least 25 mature oaks, maples, poplars, and pines laid out on our property and a dozen more leaning this way and that. There were also trees that had found their final resting places on top of our house and car.

As we bushwhacked our way through dense tree canopies that, just a few hours earlier, had stretched their arms a hundred feet in the air, we struggled to reconcile the destruction around us with the improbable blue skies and harmless white clouds that were now floating overhead.

With no power, no water, and no communications, our neighbors pulled together and began picking up the pieces, like so many communities across western North Carolina. Downed trees blocked our exit from the neighborhood in more than half a dozen places. Over the next two days, we tackled the obstructions one by one until we reached the last: a tangle of trees, branches, and brush that blocked our path for 50 feet. The dense woods on either side of the road had been broomed flat, and most of the debris was lying across the road. We laughed and shook our heads at the impossibility of the task. We started to walk away.

Then someone grabbed a branch. And another. A chainsaw buzzed to life. A dozen pairs of hands grappled with the heavy rounds of wood, moving them aside. An hour later, the path was clear.

• • •

For several days, a band of neighborhood volunteers walked from house to house, offering whatever help was needed. Fallen trees were removed from roofs, cars, and driveways. A damaged tree hanging like a sword of Damocles over a propane tank was carefully cut away.

On the third day after the storm, a few of us helped a neighbor whose home had taken two direct hits from trees. We removed a once-majestic oak from the master bedroom, repaired the rafters, and tarped the roof. We had not yet finished the job when the sky turned dark. Raindrops fell, mocking our efforts to protect what was left of our neighbor’s home. But just as quickly, the shower passed. And in its place, a rainbow appeared, bounding across the sky like a sign of grace.

After two trees fell on the home of Jerry Owensby (pictured), the author and other neighbors helped remove the trees and tarp his roof. As they worked, they noticed a rainbow stretching across the sky. Photography courtesy of BRAD CAMPBELL

Grace. Once we recognized it, we noticed it everywhere.

We saw it in the legions of orange-shirted volunteers from Samaritan’s Purse who arrived from all over the country, ready to help.

We heard it 20 to 30 times a day in the tandem-rotor Chinook helicopters thudding overhead on their way to deliver aid across the region.

We saw it in the eyes of one of our neighbors, who served as a volunteer for Broad River Fire & Rescue and assisted in search and rescue and recovery efforts. He didn’t talk much about what he experienced. He didn’t need to.

We heard it in the voices of the reporters on local radio stations, who worked around the clock to provide essential information about where to find water, food, shelter, and a reliable cell signal.

And as the rebuilding stretched into weeks and months, we felt it in the generosity and kindness of our neighbors — the ones with the generator, who invited the entire neighborhood over for a home-cooked meal, and those who offered up their hot showers, propane cookstoves, and satellite Internet.

It’s true that communities are built from homes constructed of bricks and stone, wood and glass. But what brings them to life are the hearts that beat within their walls. And while nature may be mighty, its power is no match for those hearts — especially when they all beat as one.