Biloxi, USA - In the Bible Belt, Sunday is the day for going to church, even if all that is left of it is a pile of rubble.
Hurricane Katrina spared very little in this casino town where gambling and religion have long been at odds. But that did not stop hundreds of people - even those whose sanctuaries were destroyed - from gathering on street corners, in church parking lots and in grassy fields where churches once stood to share their stories of survival and hope.
In Houston, a group of ministers offered words of comfort over loud speakers at the four shelters where many of the 24,000 evacuees from New Orleans are being housed.
For an hour or two on Sunday in Biloxi, there was no worrying about tomorrow, whether homes would be rebuilt, if there would be enough food to get through the week or whether they would have a job to support their family.
This was a time for rejoicing, for crying tears of relief and for embracing old friends and strangers who walked up from the streets. It was a time of camaraderie among people who share the common bond of having survived a hurricane that has forever changed their lives.
"We have lost many, many things, but we are blessed because we are alive," George Parks, 54, told about 20 fellow parishioners at New Bethel Missionary Baptist Church who sat in folding chairs in a parking lot in the sweltering heat.
As he spoke to a chorus of "Amens" and "praise the Lords" from the congregation, tears streamed down 51-year-old Hazel Price's face. Suddenly, the pressure of being the caretaker for church members who are now homeless seemed to take its toll.
Since Hurricane Katrina struck on Monday, Price has been responsible for preparing hundreds of hot meals - fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans - to distribute to 200 people a day in the neighborhood where New Bethel has stood for more than 100 years.
Price, who cooks for the church's food ministry, and her family are among about a dozen people who have sought refuge in the church since the storm, living in the midst of soggy carpets, crumpled pews and glass from the church's shattered windows and doors.
They cleaned out a room near the kitchen, fired up the natural gas stove and set a big table reminiscent of the one in painting, "The Last Supper." A bowl of fruit was placed in the center.
"I'm not worried about a lot of material stuff," said Price, whose home was destroyed by the hurricane. "I can look through the front of my house and see straight to the back. If I weren't here, I would have nowhere to go."
On the other side of town, across the street from casino row, more than 100 people sat in lawn chairs at the site where the Episcopal Church Redeemer used to stand. Much of the church was rebuilt after Hurricane Camille in 1969. Hurricane Katrina will force them to do it again.
The landmark church is where Jefferson Davis, former president of the Confederacy, worshiped before his death. All that remains now are steps leading to what used to be the entrance and an archway of steel beams. Someone placed a white cross on the lawn. The church's historic bell tower, which survived the previous hurricane, was crumbled, and the bell lay on its side.
"We will rebuild because it is important to the community that we are here," said Rev. Harold Roberts, the church rector. "People have not been able to talk to each other or see each other for days. But we are energized and we are telling the world that we will be alright."
After communion was celebrated and the pets were blessed, people lingered to talk and embrace. Roberts commented that he had never been able to get parishioners to stay that long for coffee after a regular service.
But there was so much to be said. And no one knew when the time would come again.
"What a great spirit was here today," J.J. Gagne, 56, said stroking the backs of a baby squirrels she held in a box and was nursing to health. "This is our life and our family, and we won't give it up."
Even before Katrina struck, members of the Lighthouse Apostolic Church in Biloxi never believed in praising the Lord quietly. On Sunday, the service was louder than normal, and the pastor moved it onto the street so that everyone could hear.
Inside, the sanctuary was ripped apart. The floors and furniture were covered with mud and sludge.
But that was just the building. The church, member said, had moved outside.
Music from an electric piano and a synthesizer powered by a generator poured through the neighborhood. Three young girls belted out gospel songs. The members of the congregation got up from their metal folding chairs and clapped and danced in the street, led by a flamboyant minister with a microphone in his hand.
Workers from a power company in Georgia stopped repairing utility lines for a while and joined the service. Motorists driving down the street honked their horns in support. Some pulled over, got out of their cars and lifted their arms in praise.
"Somebody shout, `I'm a survivor,''' yelled Bishop DeBruce Nelson. "Tell the devil we're outside right now but we're going in."
In Houston, the mood was more somber. As the ministers spoke at the Reliant Center, children played catch and tested new toy cars given to them by volunteers. Adults in the crowd slept, dressed infants and fixed breakfast for their families.
The people at the Reliant Center, next door to the Houston Astrodome where 19,000 evacuees were brought from the Superdome in New Orleans, had much to be thankful for. But many were too weary to think about that. They had spent long days trying to get out of the flooded city.
"(The service) made me depressed," said Sharon Craig, 53, who has been busy caring for her five grandchildren since she was separated form her daughter and the children's mother. "Then I was just thanking Jesus that I was alive.
"If the man hadn't said it was Sunday, I wouldn't have known what day it was," she said.