My parents’ home flooded on July 4. There were waves in their house by the time they left. If they had delayed leaving by even a few minutes, or if they hadn’t know exactly where to drive to reach higher ground, they would not have made it. Their neighbors, 30 feet away, were among the victims.

We saw so much kindness in the days after the flood. Before groups like Mercy Chefs and Samaritan’s Purse arrived to provide desperately needed food and physical help, two women who spoke only Spanish walked along the river dropping off fresh fruit. They wanted to help however they could. We ate ripe watermelon and pineapple on that first sad day while we dug through waist-high mud, silt and even horse manure from upstream, looking for anything to salvage and pausing only to allow search and rescue workers to clear victims’ bodies.

There wasn’t much to save. But there was so much kindness, so much help, so much understanding.

It was different when we turned to FEMA’s disaster assistance program. We know that FEMA isn’t an insurance policy; it won’t cover all of my parents’ losses. That isn’t the part of the story that I’m telling.

The part I’m telling is about FEMA’s bureaucracy, which desperately needs to be demolished and rebuilt.

My parents........

© The Hill