It was really just a network cameraman’s trick; he wasn’t trying to be artistic or edgy, but he was attempting to get a shot of a devastated building in New Orleans without leaving the safety of his vehicle.

It was probably an apartment building or a hotel. The cameraman had his driver position the van “just so” in the street, and from the back seat, he aimed his camera lens on the convex mirror on the passenger side of the vehicle.

In doing so, the mirror “curved” the image of the structure and made it possible for the network camera to show the entire building at once.

In great detail we could see the ragged glass in the window frames, the curtains flapping wildly in the wind, and the empty sockets in the face of the building, the remnants of what had once been luxury accommodations in one of America’s most colorful cities.

It was a perfect, evocative image, sure to garner awards in future days for capturing the forlorn and desolate ruins left behind by the disaster known as Katrina.

There was a problem with the image, however. The continuity of the picture was interrupted by the words that by law are inscribed on all passenger side mirrors on vehicles these days. Perhaps you’ve noticed them: “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

I found myself strangely disturbed by the words that ran across the bottom of the shot, as though the horrible conditions portrayed weren’t shocking enough. Part of me wondered if those words shouldn’t be plastered below every single one of the video feeds and photographs that have come from the Gulf Coast over the last month.

You know the images: the elderly man dead and bloated in a broken lawn chair; the woman going into diabetic shock, begging for someone to find some insulin; the listless babies in the hot sun too weak and dehydrated to cry; and the ancient grandmother sitting in the pouring rain, protecting her head with a beach towel on which is imprinted the image of the American flag. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

The reminder is that these are not pictures of a Third World country; this is not Bangladesh or Sudan or Calcutta; this is Main Street America, torn to shreds in a matter of hours by forces that we can track, analyze and understand, but against whose destruction we are powerless. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

This is Mississippi, this is Texas, this is Louisiana, home to beautiful sunsets, remarkable beaches and jazz that is both hot and cool at the same time. Now, however, we see rows of foundations where whole communities and neighborhoods used to be. We see gaunt, exhausted faces and realize that they are our brother and sister Americans. We see incredible suffering, it is true. Then, however, we watch in disbelief as old women and men pick up brooms and start to sweep up after 30,000 evacuees, as people in misery take the hat off of their own head because they see someone else who needs it more. We marvel at the man who accompanied 18 children in a rescue boat and vowed to watch after all of them until they could be reunited with their parents. He said, “I’d cry, but I’m too busy right now changing diapers.” “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

Like any crisis in life, the past month on the Gulf Coast has shown America at its best and at its worst. Remarkable feats of heroism have been juxtaposed with cruelty and selfishness as a society has been torn apart at the seams.

Distinctions of class have evaporated in shelters in which everyone is homeless, yet anger persists over relief that came too late to help so many, especially those who are poor and black, who when the warning came had no place to go and no way to get there.

Objects in the mirror, whether they are scenes of devastation or the horror of addiction or the loneliness of spiritual hopelessness, are closer than they appear. We do not need to go to Louisiana to find situations of poverty or desperation, but even 1,900 miles away we can feel close to the human drama that is playing itself out, and find ways to respond that honor the image of God in the men, women and children whose lives have been so disrupted.

I am confident that as a nation we can come together and bring God’s hope and compassion to all who have survived these horrible storms and to demonstrate in tangible ways that in our darkest times the sun will indeed shine again. After all, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

The Rev. Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., is a United Methodist pastor in Presque Isle and a brother in the Order of St. Luke. He may be reached via tlbphd@yahoo.com. Voices is a weekly commentary by Maine people who explore issues affecting spirituality and religious life.