The heap of molding Torahs piles higher each day in the parking lot of Houston's United Orthodox Synagogues.

Strewn among the water-logged stories of great floods and displaced Jewish people is a warped book of prayers for Tisha B'Av, the late summer fast to mourn Judaism's worst catastrophes, including the razing of some of the faith's greatest temples.

Amy Goldstein stared quietly over the pile. The torn book's inclusion felt fitting.

"We cry together through those words," she said Thursday. "It's kind of poignant that it's here."

The synagogue sits only a few hundred yards from Brays Bayou and has taken in water three times in as many years. Damages from the first two storms were extensive, prompting synagogue leadership to create a flood-management team and elevate new structures built at the sprawling complex on Greenwillow Street.

But nothing could prepare them for Hurricane Harvey, which soaked the whole building in nearly six feet of water, and, unlike past storms, spared only a few of the synagogue's 300 or so Orthodox families. Most members live within blocks of the complex so that they can walk to temple during Sabbath when driving is banned. Many were still displaced Friday.

Nearly two weeks after the flood, the synagogue's leadership is still unsure of what will become of the heavily damaged building. Hundreds of books and religious items were destroyed by water that moved quickly through classrooms, prayer rooms, a kitchen and a two-year-old hall built at a higher elevation.

In the blocks nearby, homes are still being gutted, a neighborhood mourns and, with the high holiday of Rosh Hashanah fast approaching, reasons to celebrate feel rare.

"Some aren't even asking what they should do," said Rabbi Barry Gelman, 43. "They're just crying."

On Thursday he stared quietly over his temple's scattered, warped pews, and noted the high-water mark near the top of his lectern on the stage above. For now, the podium will go unused, he said, as he focuses on the physical, rather than spiritual, safety of his shaken community.

That, too, has been difficult. The congregation's rigid orthodoxy, he said, has created a close-knit community whose members are particularly reliant on one another. Gelman said his people have weathered previous storms almost entirely on their own, with those affected taking refuge in the dry homes of Jewish neighbors.

But Harvey was different, displacing at least three times as many congregants than in previous floods. Now, he said, some are struggling to accept help they desperately need.

"They're much more beholden to outside volunteers (after Harvey)," he said. "It's not easy to just let a stranger into your house to tear it down. … So much is out of your control."

On Thursday, Rabbi Shmuel Herzfeld toured the synagogue. He had arrived there earlier in the day from Washington, D.C. to replace many of the items destroyed, and was quickly overwhelmed by the scene.

"This is one of the saddest things I've seen in my life," he said. "Obviously, if you look at history and wars, there have been terrible things. But to live through this in real time…"

The rabbi's voice trailed off.

"It's just devastating," he said after a pause. "It's an entire community, devastated."

Those who've seen the synagogue have been similarly grim.

"It's horrible," said Mindy Mitzner, 56, a 33-year member who lives a block away. Her home sits higher than most on the street, and her family housed displaced congregates during the floods. They also held Shiva services for a member who had died before the storm.

"I don't know what we're going to do," she said. "This was catastrophic."

Some members haven't yet seen the synagogue. Others don't want to.

"That would be too hard," said Jenelle Garner, 47, as she dried off a book of family photos in her Sarong Drive house Thursday. Outside, a pile of dressers, doors and drywall piled higher by the hour, adding to the trash mounds that now dominate the neighborhood's landscape.

Worse, she and others said, is the possibility that they might have to move the synagogue - a devastating proposition to a community linked by geography as much as by faith.

"The hardest part is the uncertainty," Garner said.

Goldstein agreed.

"We're a community, and we want to stay together," she said.

At the Robert M. Beren Academy, the Orthodox school attended by many of the synagogue's children, officials said Thursday they are simply trying to make students feel normal after a week of chaos.

"These are not normal times," said Head of School Paul Oberman. "It's hard to do homework when you're wondering, 'Where are we staying tonight?' and the answer is 'I don't know.'"

"So much of it still feels surreal," he said.

Some hope pervades, however. Gelman said he believes the storm will strengthen the bonds of his congregation over time, and though many are shaken, a sense of resilience has spread as more than a thousand of their Jewish brethren arrive to help from across the city, nation and world.

"We're going to get through this," Gelman said. "We know the drill."

For some, the shared struggle has reinforced their sense of Jewish unity, the concept of Am Yisrael Chai - "the people of Israel lives" - bolstered by outpourings of support from home and abroad.

"The people of Israel are one people," Oberman said. "And the people of Houston are one people, too."

Still, these were supposed to be among the happiest days of the year, the prelude to Rosh Hashanah - the Jewish New Year - filled with communal celebrations and personal reflection. Yet these days, the joy is fleeting.

Standing among the ruins, Goldstein pondered one prayer that felt hauntingly apt: "Who shall live and who shall die? Who shall perish by water and who by fire?"

She paused for a moment and scanned the sooted temple floor.

"This is going to be a hard season," she said. "But we'll be together."