By Benjamin Haugh, Founder of All Nation Restoration

After nearly 20 years in the restoration industry and 15 years of owning and operating All Nation Restoration in Central Texas I’ve seen just about every kind of disaster imaginable. Fires, floods, collapsed ceilings, broken pipes, busted water heaters. You name it, I’ve dried it out, torn it out, or rebuilt it.

But some projects stand out not because of the scale of the destruction, but because of what they reveal about people. This is one of those stories.

A Broken Pipe and a Frozen City

As anyone who’s lived in Texas over the past few years knows, we’ve been hit with a couple of historically brutal winters especially strange for a state not built for cold. During one of those deep freezes, I got a call from just outside Austin: a fire suppression fitting on the sprinkler system had burst at the local American Legion hall, dumping thousands of gallons of water inside the building.

When you work in restoration, this kind of call isn’t unusual. It was a straightforward water job: extract the water, pull the damaged flooring, remove ruined baseboards, set up the drying equipment, monitor the process. Routine stuff.

But from the very beginning, there was something different about this job. The number one question was:

“When Can Bingo Start Again?”

While walking through the damage and giving the initial proposal, one of the first questions I received from management was:

“How fast can we get the building back up and running?”

That’s a normal question. But the intensity behind it? That was not. It was the middle of a historic freeze. Roads were iced over. Much of the area was still without power. I couldn’t understand the urgency for a community hall.

Then came the calls.

And the knocks on the door.

And the cars sitting outside.

Over the next several days, the same 10–15 people…none of whom owned the building or officially ran its programs started showing up. Calling. Waiting in the parking lot. Some of them would sit in their cars for hours during the usual bingo time

slots, watching us through the window. Hoping for progress. Checking in constantly to ask one simple question:

“Are y’all almost done yet?”

At first, I was honestly irritated. I had never seen people care so much about a game of bingo. I remember thinking to myself: Is this a full-blown gambling addiction? Are they that desperate to win 50 bucks?

We stayed on schedule. We got the building dried out, repaired, cleaned up, and fully restored. And then we moved on, just like we always do.

But the story didn’t end there.

A couple of weeks later, our office started receiving letters. Handwritten letters. Long ones. Not from the building owners or the managers but from the very same people who had called and visited so often during the job.

Each letter was full of gratitude.

They weren’t apologies for pestering us. They weren’t prompted by anyone. They were genuine. Heartfelt. Full of appreciation not just for the work we did, but for helping them get back to something they had deeply missed.

And as I opened the eighth letter, it hit me.

This job wasn’t about bingo.

It was about community.

These people hadn’t been frantic to gamble. They weren’t hoping for a jackpot. They were desperate to get back to what mattered most: connection, joy, laughter, and love.

The bingo nights weren’t just entertainment. They were rituals. Rhythms. A chance to see familiar faces, to joke with friends, to feel seen, and to share space with others who had become like family.

And for a moment, I saw what they saw.

That job changed something in me. It reminded me that while restoration is about structures, it’s also about people. While we might be hired to dry out walls or replace flooring, the real value is in what those spaces represent: belonging, routine, safety, and connection.

Making money is great. Building a business is rewarding. But sometimes…

Bingo is more important.

Restoring homes. Rebuilding lives