Bypassing the church bulletin, I slid my fingers along the smooth, dark cherry wood of the new pulpit. I couldn't resist tracing the hollow of each letter carved into the prayer table. "This do in remembrance of me," I whispered.

It sent me back, back to a place I had never completely escaped until then.

Looking at the plush plum carpet and matching pews, my eyes lingered to take in the sadness it covered up. The sadness I lived through. The sadness I thought would never end.

I exhaled but wouldn't release the tears of happiness in my eyes. "Don't make a scene," I told myself. But as I stepped onto the stage and picked up a worn, red hymnal, I didn't see words and music notes on the pages. I didn't hear the black baby-grand piano strike a heavenly chord.

Instead, I looked down at my feet and saw where an air mattress had laid eight months ago the night before our church was nearly destroyed. Instantly, I knew I had to rewind and play the scene of Hurricane Katrina again in my mind. But this would be the last time.

It was Aug. 28, 2005 , a steaming-hot Sunday like those only in Mississippi . All 40 church members had heard the storm was coming but no one had evacuated. We hadn't bought any food or batteries. We hadn't taped up any windows, and Rev. Edgar L. Brown certainly hadn't cancelled church services.

By Sunday night, my family and other members in our small but faithful congregation decided it wouldn't hurt to be a little cautious; even though we had hauled food and moved mattress out to the church only a few weeks earlier for Hurricane Dennis, which didn't even blow down any tree limbs in the church yard. Some storm that was.

But just to be sure, we decided to seek shelter in the one place that withstood every storm in our lives. The one place that's steeple was a tall, shining beacon among the small houses on the block.

I set up my air mattress on the stage where I sing with my three brothers and sister every Sunday morning. I called it the penthouse because it was a few feet higher than the floor. We laughed about it then.

After covering the rust red carpet with mattresses, sheets, board games and pillows, we watched a movie on a portable DVD player. The cold air conditioning made us cover up more than we needed to in August; it was almost like a slumber party.

I faintly heard the wind outside.

Later that night, we went to bed thinking mud holes and scattered leaves would be the worst of our problems. We thought the sun would rise Tuesday morning and we'd walk away from this with a day off work. As my nephew, James, and niece, Maggie, curled up next to me under a hand-quilted blanket, they asked what was going to happen. I told them we'd see in the morning.

I heard the wind again, stronger this time. The rain was becoming heavy.

I woke up at 3 a.m. with all the covers pulled off me and on the kids. I looked at the clock on my cell phone, then read the numerous text messages from a friend in north Mississippi . He said it was going to be bad, worse than I expected. He said I needed to wake up and look outside. But the words on my phone's tiny screen faded as I heard something. What was it?

The church was pitch black, and that sound was all I could hear. I stood still, afraid to move. The doors. It was the doors. The wind was beating them, slamming them back and forth. I laid back down thinking, mostly hoping, it was the worst it would be. Now, I laugh about thinking that.

Three hours later, everyone was awake and watching the hurricane worsen with every minute. The winds accelerated to unnatural speeds, prying off shingles and the church's steeple. Rain began to drizzle then pour through the roof, wetting the pews where we sat three times a week to hear God's word.

It was real now.

We huddled the children under an air mattress in a Sunday School room next to crayons and storybooks. Some adults stood in the church too afraid to see what was coming outside. I stood at the door, watching something I had never seen in my life, something so violent it was hard for me to remember God's hand controlled it.

I saw the roof pealed off the neighbors' houses like the pealing of a banana. I heard the sound of mighty freight trains as trees fell through the fellowship hall. I dodged back into the doorway so flying debris wouldn't hit me. I wasn't being brave. I wasn't seeking thrills. I just couldn't look away. I was mesmerized at the horror but also entranced by the power.

Eventually, I did step away from the door. I took my place in a circle of my family and others seeking shelter. We joined hands and prayed God would not only protect us, but our church. I looked up and saw the tears in my father's eyes. I knew for him, more than for anyone else, watching the church torn apart was killing something deep inside him. As the pastor, it was his heart and soul. It was the building God told him to build.

But this Sunday in May, with the memories of Katrina still vivid but now distant, the tears in my father's eyes and the ones I eventually let flow weren't tears of sadness but happiness. As we held the first service in our church with new carpet, pews and almost everything restored, we felt peace.

As my father praised God for His goodness, I remembered Noah. I wondered how he must have felt when stepping on dry land after being in the ark for 40 days. I settled deeper into my pew and wondered if maybe he took his shoe off and let his toes play in the soft grass. Silly, maybe, but I'll never be sure.

For Noah and myself, I slipped off my high heel and let my toes play in the soft carpet. Yes, Noah. God's promise felt good.