As the New Year begins, top 10 lists and year-in-reviews for 2005 appear everywhere.

Crowning Burien’s 2005 year in review should be the Hurricane Relief center, which was forged by the compassion of local leaders and sustained with the sympathy of our community -- proving that Burien really was the small town with the big heart, a phrase coined by Relief Center catalyst Steve Denmark.

As a journalist I did my best to report on the humanitarian efforts at work. As a Burien citizen I did my best to contribute by becoming involved as a volunteer at the center. I witnessed the strength of my community and the spirit of those relocated to the Seattle area by Katrina.

It was overwhelming to hear the personal accounts of the hurricane victims and their families.

I wanted to put my skills to work, and follow the product of Burien’s compassion across the United States. My goal was to be able to share how far our love had gone. When Denmark told me about an opportunity to travel to Mississippi to document the journey of Burien’s efforts, I jumped at the chance.

I immediately rushed out to buy more flash cards for my camera, packed only what I needed, and stocked up on Cliff’s Bars.

The next morning when I arrived at work I had an email— the shipment was being re-routed. There would be no Burien representatives traveling with the shipment, and there was no confirmed contact for me at the new drop off location to stay with, and no transportation once I arrived. Hurricane Rita was on the threshold of becoming a category 5.

The next day life went on, in Burien.

During the following week I was sent to cover another hurricane related story. A group named Backpacks of Hope had been collecting new school supplies, stuffed animals and toiletries to put in backpacks for dislocated children starting schools in their new communities.

I casually mentioned to Kerry Hanchai, the woman responsible for Backpacks of Hope, that I would love to go down Louisiana to follow the story, and see how it ends.

“I’ll be in contact with you,” she said.

Again, life went on, in Burien.

Weeks went by and on a random Wednesday, Hanchai called.

“We are leaving on Friday,” she said. “We have a hotel room if you would like to camp out with us.”

That night I paid the rent, packed my camera gear, and bought a plane ticket. With a week of unpaid leave and a plane ticket in hand, I was out the door, not to look back.

My rather non-extensive knowledge of Louisiana was gathered from an episode of “Road Rules” where Kit and Mark finally kissed on Bourbon Street. Therefore, when I stepped off the plane I staggered into an entirely new world. I left Seattle, the home of grunge and incessant rainfall, for the Deep South where I suddenly had the elevated status of Miss and the sun shone every day.

After arriving in northern Louisiana, we connected with Open Door Missions, Inc.

Following the hurricanes, Open Door had begun using a gymnasium in Choudrant as a hurricane relief site. Every day, shipments came in from across the nation, from cities just like Burien. Every day, the small town of just under 600 people pulled together to make sure that the shipments went out to where they were needed.

Hanchai’s goal was to get the thousands of backpacks she shipped to Louisiana distributed with the out-going loads of supplies. She was convinced I was going to take a Pulitzer photo and she would be able to hand out backpacks and hugs to the smallest survivors.

Unfortunately, the backpacks were detained due to security procedures, and she ended up staying two weeks longer to receive and distribute her backpacks.

The next day life went on, in Choudrant.

Accepting my backpackless fate, I continued to work in the relief center, loading pallets with food and supplies. Occasionally I was lucky enough to help a family that had been relocated find what they needed around the relief center.

The day before I left I decided to jump on an outbound truck. With nothing but my camera and a Cliff’s Bar, at a 4:30 a.m. I met Greg Snider, the impromptu truck driver from Pentictin, British Columbia. With a quick prayer, and no certainty that I would make the eight-hour drive back in time the next day to catch my flight, I hopped in the truck and departed down the LA 167.

Along the way I learned that Pentictin, where Snider was from, was about the same size as Burien and that they, like Burien, had put together a collection center for hurricane victims. He volunteered to drive down the U-Haul, and when he got to Choudrant he decided to extend his stay a week and run truckloads up and down the state.

As our truck pulled in to the city of Houma and we headed down towards the gulf, I flung half my body out the window -- my shutter flying. There was no time to stop the truck and I didn’t have time to think about exposure or what I was shooting. I just tried to get what I could.

I was surrounded by entire towns that were obliterated by the hurricane. A thousand double-wide trailers down the one road town of Dulac completely ravaged by wind and water. Anything that was left inside the homes had to be torn out because of mold. The entire contents of people homes were gone.

After we made our drop off at the local church, I found lodging for the night in the home of the pastor from the next parish over. These peoples had no chance of seeing FEMA or any relief agency, all they had was their neighbors and open-door missions, said the pastor’s wife.

They drove me Chauvin, a town closer to their parish. I just walked up and down the streets. People had come back in the last week to have their homes gutted and everything was on their lawns. The smell of stagnate water was slightly overpowered by bleach as I walked by the homes where residents were making attempts to clean the insides of their homes.

The pastor’s wife told me about the first week after the hurricane hit, her church had gotten together supplies, and they had driven a truck through to distribute them.

She said people were thankful to have anything. No one was complaining, everyone was helping their neighbors. If someone didn’t have what they needed, they would find it.

I met a few people cleaning up, putting their lives back together. I didn’t have anything to offer them but hugs, and to let them know that we wouldn’t forget them.

Everyone I spoke to said they were thankful for all the help they had received. They also said they would rebuild, it is their home it is all they have and know.

At the end of the day all that was lost was material possessions, and what was left standing was faith. The faith that their neighbors would be there to help, and the faith that America would not forget.

The next day life went on, in Chauvin, and in Burien.

Along the way, although I didn’t find my Pulitzer, I found something much more satisfying.

I traveled across the nation to find home, to find faith, and to find that life goes on because of compassion. At the core, no matter who we are, where we have come from, we are all the same.

Instead of making a New Year’s Resolution, make a new year’s statement that you won’t forget what we accomplished in 2005, and that we can do more in 2006.

Amber Trillo is a staff photographer for the Times/News. She can be reached at atrillo@robinsonnews.com or at 206.444.4873.