Hurricane Andrew's path and its impact on SW 152nd Street in KendallSW 152nd Street (also known as Coral Reef Drive or the southern edge of the main Kendall area) sits in central-southern Miami-Dade County, roughly in the latitude range of about 25.63°N. The storm's eye made landfall around 4:30–5:00 AM EDT on August 24, 1992, near Elliott Key and then mainland near Homestead/Florida City (around 25.4–25.5°N latitude, well south of your location). The eye's track crossed the peninsula from east to west, centered over the hardest-hit zones like Cutler Bay, Perrine, Naranja, Homestead, and Florida City—areas 10–20+ miles south of SW 152nd Street.The northern end of Andrew's destructive core (the eyewall, where the most ferocious winds raged) did not pass directly over or immediately north of SW 152nd Street. The eyewall's northern extent generally reached up toward the southern fringes of Kendall, but the absolute worst of the Category 5 fury—winds stripping roofs, demolishing homes to foundations—was concentrated farther south. Reports and survivor accounts often mark a sharp gradient around or just south of SW 152nd Street:Areas south of 152nd Street experienced the most catastrophic damage, with many videos and testimonies cutting off abruptly around 4 AM as conditions became unlivable (e.g., roofs tearing off, windows exploding).At and around SW 152nd Street, impacts were still severe—high winds (likely hurricane-force gusts over 100 mph in places), widespread roof damage, downed trees/power lines, shattered windows, and debris everywhere—but not the total obliteration seen in Homestead or Cutler Ridge. For example:Zoo Miami (at 12400 SW 152nd St.) was heavily damaged or affected in nearly every area, with animals sheltered in restrooms and major structural issues.Nearby mobile home parks (like Dadeland or Country Walk off SW 152nd) were devastated.Kendall-Tamiami Executive Airport reported sustained winds around 127 mph before instruments failed.Your neighborhood would have felt the storm's full wrath in the pre-dawn hours, with the western eyewall's outer bands slamming through as the eye passed well south.In short: No, the north end of the storm's eye/eyewall did not pass over or directly by SW 152nd Street—the eye stayed notably farther south (closer to Homestead, about 15–20 miles away). But Kendall, including SW 152nd, was still very much in the dangerous northern semicircle, enduring intense winds, rain, and chaos that felt apocalyptic. Many residents there described it as the edge of the "unusual" destruction zone, where the storm's small but ferocious size created a steep drop-off in intensity northward toward downtown Miami (which got battered but spared the worst).This aligns with why your family's home in Kendall survived with repairable damage (shingles, fences, debris) while southern Dade was leveled—your location was on the northern fringe of the eyewall's path, not its core.To visualize the track and damage gradient:Classic track maps showing Andrew's eye crossing near Homestead, well south of Kendall/SW 152nd.Radar/satellite views of the eye and eyewall at landfall, hugging the southern Miami-Dade coast.Damage contrasts: total devastation south of Kendall vs. the battered-but-rebuildable scenes in areas like SW 152nd.If you'd like to tie this back into your personal story (how it felt in your home, the Psalm 29 recitation amid the roar, or the rebuilding efforts on your street), or explore more specifics like wind estimates for Kendall, just let me know!My childhood home was 10501 sw 126  st with Australian pines circling our property as my parents endured the storm we lived in dadeland mobile park but settled farther  north of 152 street and still endured the hurricane i went across the street in country walk and bought a house without most of roof 23.5 thousand  i rebuilt it my self it was a neighborhood with guards and amenities  The days following Hurricane Andrew's passage on August 24, 1992, revealed a landscape forever altered. What had been thriving neighborhoods in southern Miami-Dade County—especially around Homestead and Cutler Bay—now resembled a war zone of twisted metal, splintered wood, and uprooted lives. The Category 5 monster, with sustained winds of 165 mph and gusts pushing 177 mph, had carved a narrow but devastating path: over 63,000 homes destroyed outright, more than 124,000 severely damaged, and roughly 250,000 people left homeless in Dade County alone. Mobile homes fared worst—nearly 99% obliterated in Homestead—while even sturdy concrete-block houses were stripped to their foundations, roofs peeled away like paper, windows shattered, and interiors soaked or scattered. Total damages in Florida reached about $25–27 billion (a record at the time), with power outages affecting 1.4 million customers, some lasting weeks. In the Everglades, 70,000 acres of trees lay flattened, and the storm indirectly reshaped ecosystems in unforeseen ways.Our own home in Kendall, farther north and spared the eye's full wrath, still bore scars: shingles torn, fence toppled, yard littered with branches and debris from neighboring streets. Yet the true devastation lay south, where entire communities vanished under the roar. Driving through the hardest-hit zones days later felt surreal—streets unrecognizable, landmarks gone, people wandering in shock, searching for what remained of their addresses amid piles of rubble. Desperate messages spray-painted on rooftops pleaded for help: "NEED WATER, ICE, FOOD," or simply "HELP PLEASE." The air hung heavy with the smell of wet wood, salt, and uprooted earth.In the storm's wake, a remarkable spirit emerged. Relief poured in from every direction: the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers mobilized with nearly $400 million in federal funds for cleanup, debris removal, and infrastructure repair—clearing roads, restoring power lines, and aiding the massive salvage operation. Neighbors turned to one another instinctively; church groups (including our own congregation) organized food drives, water distribution, and temporary shelters. The private sector stepped up boldly with the "We Will Rebuild" initiative, led by Florida business leaders and supported by then-President George H.W. Bush and Governor Lawton Chiles—a coalition that bridged public and private efforts to jump-start recovery and foster cooperation.Rebuilding unfolded slowly but determinedly. By late 1994, about 70% of damaged or destroyed homes in Homestead had been repaired or reconstructed. The storm exposed fatal flaws in lax building codes and enforcement, sparking sweeping changes: Miami-Dade County pioneered stricter standards, mandating impact-resistant windows and doors, enhanced roof tie-downs, and rigorous testing for wind resistance—reforms that have since protected the region through countless storms. New homes rose stronger, communities replanted trees (over 40,000 in the first months), and traffic signals and signs were methodically restored. Homestead itself transformed: the Air Force Base, devastated beyond recognition, underwent one of the largest peacetime military rebuilds, emerging resilient and forward-looking.For our family, Andrew became more than a weather event—it was a lived parable echoing Psalm 29. The thunderous voice that breaks cedars and shakes the wilderness had passed, leaving stripped illusions and a clearer view of what endures: not brick or status, but faith, community, and acts of service.