How to reach out to your community »
The Rev. Clint Twedt-Ball of Block by Block offers advice to others interested in starting community partnerships.
March 16, 2010 | On a frigid winter day, there are new signs of life in the 1300 block of Eighth Street on the northwest side of Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
Sidewalks are cleared of snow, smoke rises from chimneys and kitchen lights glow behind new curtains. A block away, for-sale signs dot lawns of freshly painted houses, electricians’ trailers rest on curbs and power tools buzz in the distance.
Many in this working-class neighborhood thought they’d never return after the Cedar River overflowed its banks and saturated about 10 square miles, or 14 percent, of the city in June 2008. Almost a year later, many people still waited while their homes sat empty.
But the dedication of two brothers, an innovative church-community partnership and a common faith in neighborly love brought them home again.
Known as Block by Block, the neighborhood revitalization project has been hailed as one of the most successful efforts in Cedar Rapids. Instead of helping homeowners one at a time, Block by Block works to bring back entire neighborhoods.
Though it melds a unique array of religious and secular groups, the heart of the project is ultimately Christian: building communities of people who take care of one another.
“The early church evolved through a neighbor talking to a neighbor, saying, ‘We’re building this community. When you get hurt, when you are suffering, this community of believers will help you heal,’” said the Rev. Clint Twedt-Ball, a United Methodist pastor who came up with the idea for Block by Block. “To me, that’s what Block by Block is about. When disasters happen, we as Christians will come together to help neighbors get whole again.”
The Cedar River flows through downtown Cedar Rapids, an eastern Iowa city of about 124,000 people. When the river crested at more than 31 feet in June 2008, floodwaters swept through downtown and the surrounding neighborhoods, soaking more than 7,000 properties, including about 5,000 homes, according to Corridor Recovery, a flood resource clearinghouse.
Eleven blocks from the river, Katie and Andrew Sandquist had in spring 2008 just finished their basement and redone the hardwood floors on the first level of their early-20th-century home. The young couple bought the home in 2006 because they loved its big front porch and historic details.
The neighborhood, where elderly residents gathered on porches and children called out on the way to school each morning, was a mix of single-family homes and rental properties. While most residents took pride in their homes, some of the properties were in disrepair. The neighbors were friendly, but the Sandquists knew few of them well.
Like many of their neighbors, they moved everything from the basement to the first floor when they learned of the flooding threat, believing that water would seep into their basements but no higher.
In fact, the floodwaters engulfed much of the first story of every surrounding house. Days after the water receded, neighbors returned to find a mud-coated, tangled mess of furniture and appliances.
“I sobbed when I saw it,” Katie Sandquist said of pulling up to her home for the first time. “My life was in piles on the curb. It was devastating.”
Months after the flood, progress was achingly slow. Many homeowners waited for government assistance to help them rebuild. They languished on waiting lists for overwhelmed plumbers and electricians. Others, who could not return, waited for government buyouts.
“Time went by and so much was still broken,” Katie Sandquist said. “People in my neighborhood were feeling hopeless.”
For many homeowners, frustration with bureaucracy was also fueling anger, said Twedt-Ball’s brother, the Rev. Courtney Ball, whose home was among those flooded.
“People in my neighborhood needed a chance to sit down and talk to each other, to share triumphs and resources,” said Ball, who began to organize informal neighborhood get-togethers.
The brothers, who come from a long line of Methodist pastors, know something about community organizing. When they were young, their father left his church and became the first full-time director of Habitat for Humanity in Des Moines. Their mother worked with immigrants, helping them get acclimated to the community. After seminary, the brothers settled into traditional congregations in eastern Iowa. But something was missing in their suburban churches; they felt called to minister to those on the margins.
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