Written by Christiana Johnson, Managing Attorney, High Country (Boone)

On a November evening in Watauga County, I pulled into the parking lot of a Lutheran church where community members were gathered. I said hello to a Methodist pastor who, four days after Helene, had invited me to her church to speak on FEMA as she walked in between rows of people eating a free meal. Today, I listened as a local Baptist leader helped facilitate the meeting, alongside local nonprofits, businesses, and concerned community members. We were gathered to answer a simple, but difficult question: How do we help?

As I sat, listened, and participated, I could not help but wonder at the unity in the room. In a world that currently felt so polarized, here we were, setting aside religious and political differences to work on something that we all agreed on: our beloved mountain area needed help, and we wanted to be a part of providing it. And it felt, sitting there in a church basement on a cold winter evening in the High Country, that we knew we were stronger together.

In the wake of Helene, I told several people that when disaster strikes, you tend to see the true colors of a community. And what I saw in rural western North Carolina in the months following Helene humbled me and made me proud to be an adopted member of the community.

For many people, their faith is the catalyst for their work. Exhibit A: Myself. After graduating law school and clerking, there were those that didn’t quite understand why I wanted to work for a legal services organization. Some days, I didn’t quite understand it either. But when I spoke at my law school graduation and shared that the world didn’t really need more attorneys, but it needed more justice seekers, mercy lovers, more humble walkers with their God (Micah 6:8), I meant it. My faith compelled me to action because of scripture’s emphasis on looking after the widow, the orphan, the immigrant, the abused, and the outcast.

I could not count the number of people who ran after justice, clung to mercy, and walked humbly as they carried the burdens of others after Helene. That cold November evening was just one of many gatherings across the High Country in which individuals came together to serve those in desperate need. To play any part in this community’s relief efforts was the honor of a lifetime. And just as the survivors’ stories will replay in my mind for years to come, so will the images of those who gathered around folding tables in church basements. 

Dear Community, 

I’m reaching out with an urgent request. The future of fair housing protections in North Carolina is at risk. Last week, we received indications from within HUD that it would stop funding Legal Aid of NC’s crucial fair housing work. 

The Office of Fair Housing and Equal Opportunity, which helps protect people from housing discrimination, is facing a 77% budget reduction. The Office of Community Planning and Development, which provides housing assistance to veterans, people with disabilities, disaster survivors, and struggling families, is set to lose 84% of its funding. Rural communities could be left without support altogether. 

This fight is personal for me, as I know it is for many of you. As a mother of a child with autism, I know how important fair housing protections are for families like mine. Whether it’s disability, race, color, religion, national origin, sex, or family status, these protections ensure that people in protected classes aren’t pushed to the margins when they seek a home. 

Imagine a disabled veteran—someone who risked everything to protect our country—searching for accessible housing, only to be met with closed doors and no one to fight for them. A family recovering from the devastation of Hurricane Helene, waiting for help to rebuild their home, only to be told the support they were counting on has vanished. These are real people, that could be left struggle alone when they need us most. 

For decades, Legal Aid of North Carolina has been a safety net for those facing housing discrimination. We serve all 100 counties, ensuring that veterans, seniors, families with children, and people with disabilities have access to safe, stable housing. But now, with these funding cuts, we need your support to continue this work. 

Your donation—whether $50 or $5,000—will help sustain our fair housing work at a time when so many people are at risk of losing their homes. 

Please stand with us. Give today to protect housing for those who need it most. 

With gratitude,
Ashley Campbell
CEO, Legal Aid of North Carolina

P.S. Please consider all ways of giving, such as required minimum distributions from your IRA, giving via stock or through your donor advised fund. Your support will strengthen our mission in 2025 and beyond. Request a call or meeting.

Written by Western Regional Manager, Jonathan Perry

In the early afternoon of Thursday, September 26^th, Meredith Childress watched the Cane River expectantly from her home in Burnsville. It had been raining for two straight days and the river was high. Her boyfriend worked in Asheville and called her anxiously. “They’re saying that it’s going to get bad, Meredith. They’re saying that if you live near a river or creek, you should leave now.” This was before Helene had even arrived in the area.

Meredith had lived in her idyllic farmhouse for four and a half years. She had scraped together the $4,000.00 for a down payment, and in April 2020, at the beginning of the pandemic, she had secured a loan from Fannie Mae through their first-time buyer program. When she signed the closing documents, she wore a mask, and the paperwork was slid across a legal conference table from 6 feet away. Built in 1940 her 3-bedroom, 1-bathroom farmhouse was in rough shape. During the ensuing stay-at-home period of the pandemic, she poured sweat equity into the home, sanding, trim work, painting, she laid a new bathroom floor, changed out all ceiling fans, lights and electrical outlets and redid the bathroom.Slowly, the house started to feel like home. She planted a garden in her backyard and let her free-range chickens run loose in the field. Sunflowers grew tall in the summer months, and by Christmas 2023, the home looked very closely to what she had originally envisioned.

By 4:00 PM on the 26^th, the river was brimming, four or five feet higher than usual. Meredith’s boyfriend came back from Asheville and brought her a generator, still thinking that they would ride out the storm. She had a decision to make; the first thing to flood was going to be the low-lying culvert and driveway. Once that happened, they would be trapped. They put Meredith’s two cats and some essentials in her car and left for her mother’s rental cabin in another part of the county. The tenant in the stone house next door chose not to flee, but many residents of the RV commune down the street did leave. The elder operator of the commune stayed, along with her son and one or two animals.

Throughout Thursday night and into Friday morning, Meredith monitored the cameras on the home property from the safety of the rental cabin. She knew it was bad once she saw water creeping toward the home, but once the power went out, she longer knew.

Years earlier, Meredith worked part time at the Yancey County Library. From her own research she knew the history of flooding in the immediate area. For context, the 1916 flood brought 15-20 inches of rain over a six-day period. Generally considered a 1,000-year flood, it was the benchmark for flooding in the area. The 1977 flood brought 11 inches in two days. That storm reached the bottom of Meredith’s house. Locals called it a 100-year flood. Hurricane Helene brought a total of 31 inches of rain in four days. Some have called it a 100,000-year flood. Most that I encountered in the mountains used the term “biblical”.

After the storm left the area, Meredith waited to return. Between the trees down and roads missing, it was impossible to drive back to the property. Normally, it would be a 12-minute drive from her mom’s rental. It took her 4 days to get back. On the highway, they were dumbfounded. “It looks like a nuclear bomb went off”, she kept telling her boyfriend. Whole chunks of the road were missing. Some portions of the asphalt were in the river. Cars were in trees. They had just turned slowly onto the road near their home when saw their neighbor driving in the opposite direction and flagged him down. Billy Ray was frazzled, a distant look in his eyes. “Meredith, your house is gone.”

When they arrived back, all they saw was part of their foundation and steps. A record lay on the topmost step. Some personal belongings were here or there. Everything else was gone. Meredith just stood there looking. It was all gone.

In the following days, she has learned what had happened to her home and community. The river rose until only her roof was above the water. When the RV commune flooded, one RV floated to their home. The operator of the commune took a picture, which has since gone viral. It’s not clear if the RV tore it down, or if the neighbors dump truck floated down and finished the job. The tenant in the stone house next door had to be rescued by emergency management during the flooding.

When I met Meredith, it was about a week and half after the destruction. She was the kindest client, but clearly still in shock from the event. She had received some money from FEMA but no longer had a home nor had the desire to rebuild. I asked her about flood insurance. She had made ends meet but could not afford the $800.00 amount required. Her monthly mortgage payment was $682.00. There was no way she could pay that amount for insurance. We talked a lot about financial planning, advised about flood insurance and FEMA regulations, but like so many in the early days of Helene relief, people just wanted to talk, to be heard.

Meredith is now on the hook for the remaining $45,000 of the mortgage. With the assistance of Alicia Edwards and the Disaster Relief Team, they are negotiating with the mortgage company for either a short payoff or some other means of getting out of the mortgage.

The thing that strikes me about Meredith, a virtue that we see over and over in the folks in the mountains, is her insistence on positivity and gratitude. In all our conversations, in all our meetings, she has yet to complain. She has lost nearly every worldly possession, but she counts herself to be lucky. She told me that she was one of the fortunate ones. “It’s only a house,” she told me. “We didn’t have anyone die in our neighborhood.”