I am not particularly religious, but on the first Friday night after the flooding I went to my synagogue to find some solace. Congregants embraced, and I went over to hug a woman I know casually because she was crying. I asked if she had lost her house; no, her mother had just died days before. It dawned on me that hers was a real loss, compared with the material things.

Rabbi David Lyon, in his own eloquent way, beseeched those in need to reach out for help and for everyone to assist one another. “Hate is not the opposite of love,” he said, citing the Holocaust survivor and writer Elie Wiesel. “Indifference is the opposite of love.”

I also went to church, two days later. I was not hedging my bets with God; I was covering the fire at the Arkema chemical plant in Crosby, Tex., and I have found that a church is a good place to meet local residents and get information. The music was uplifting, and I could see people’s anxieties melt with prayer. I smiled when the wife of a firefighter pleaded with the congregation, “Don’t listen to the media; listen to Jesus.” I couldn’t understand why people couldn’t do both.

The pastor, Keenan Smith, like my rabbi, appealed for mutual aid. “It’s times like this, God, that people really see you,” he said. Being an essentially secular person, I probably took that slightly differently from the way he intended. In all the turmoil, what is really important comes into sharp relief: True feelings are shown; the agonies and the brightness of life are displayed.

Perhaps my neighbor Todd Lewis put it best. “There is a realignment of priorities,” he said.

Todd and his wife, Amanda, suffered little damage aside from the foot of water that flooded their garage. With a little time on his hands, Todd went door to door in our town and an adjoining neighborhood offering to rip out people’s drywall, while Amanda did people’s laundry and served neighbors dinner. When I told her that I was moved by their generosity, she responded, “We did nothing.”

I have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of emails, phone calls and Twitter messages from relatives and friends asking how we are doing. It is almost embarrassing, but it sure feels good. I even heard from our house’s former owner, who wrote an emotional note to say he was sorry that the home he once loved had been damaged.

Neighbors have invited me into their homes, and shared details of their childhoods and other things I would never have known if not for the flood, conversations that have drawn us closer. Strangers have knocked on our door to ask if we need help, or food, or even an embrace. An elderly woman came by to hand me an envelope from our synagogue. There was an assistance check inside, and gift cards to replace towels and other household goods. “I may be back,” she said, smiling.