No i in flood

Standing shoulder to shoulder next to people you've never met, stacking sandbags to keep the stained waters of a river from entering the homes of people you don't know, you learn that floods are a paradox.

For all the ruin they cause, for all the destruction they bring, their power to bind people and build community is even greater.

I was reminded of that this week as I followed the flood-fighting efforts in Fargo. Each day brought more images of mud-splattered teenagers and college students and middle-aged men and women and those old enough to remember other great floods atop long, snaking mounds of white bags of sand while beside them flowed the Red River of the North – dark and wide and cold.

They look wet.

They look tired.

But in no way do they look defeated. Or divided.

Twelve springs ago in the fading light of an April day, I stood in a line of people just like them, putting sandbags around a handful of homes in a Grand Forks neighborhood not far from the Red River. Before the night was out, water would begin filling the city, and people would be ordered to leave. Eventually, I would watch the river cover my street, clear the curb, cross the sidewalk and start up the driveway of my Grand Forks home.

But in the hope-filled hours that were left on that April evening in that Grand Forks neighborhood, we kept working, passing sandbags to each other until someone somewhere shouted to stop, sending us in search of another line where there was space and need for another pair of hands.

All week Fargo Mayor Dennis Walaker urged people to help save his city. All week his pleas were answered.

In the snow and the rain and the brief moments of sunshine, people showed up to fill and tie and lift and carry and stack millions and miles of sandbags. "We don't see any fear," Walaker said at one point. "We just see people working very hard."

Which is what the world has seen as well.

For unlike the Grand Forks flood in 1997, anyone who has a computer and a connection to the Web has been able to observe this flooding of Fargo.

What they have witnessed has so inspired some of them that they have felt compelled to respond. "I am just amazed by your concern for those around you, your sense of responsibility and the pride you have in your community," wrote Doug M. of Orlando, Fla., after reading an article about the flood online in the Fargo Forum newspaper. "Thank you for proving to me that there are still good people in this world."

Jim R. of Olympia, Wash., wrote, too. "You folks in Fargo and Moorhead should hold your heads high. ... You all jumped in and took care of each other."

So did Paul D. of Aberdeen. "Your spirit and hard work has captured the attention of the entire country! Can't say enough about everyone's efforts."

And Gail M. of Allentown, Pa. "You are all heroes."

Politically, socially, economically, we are a nation at odds at the moment. Daunting seem our differences. Shrinking seems our shared ground.

When you're standing in a line of mud-splattered people slinging sandbags to stop a swollen river from spilling into someone's home, however, it doesn't matter how much money you make. Or what kind of job you have. Or where you went to college or even if you went to college. It doesn't matter what your political affiliation is. Or what your sexual preference is. Or what your religious beliefs are.

All that separates us disappears when you're in such a line. In its place is a feeling of unity and belonging.

In Fargo this week we saw the Red River of the North leave its banks. But what struck us most is what we saw next: People coming together.