One Year Later.

A deep imprint marks where a house once stood. A home. One that held the memories of over 30 thanksgivings and christmases. 

Boys that grew to be men. It is strange isn’t it, that the echo of the laughter of grandchildren doesn’t ring through the open space the way it did off those well loved walls. 

In many ways, healing is like that. There is a space where before something filled it, and now… it is still there, but altered so that it is completely different. 

I tend toward melancholy, so I realize many of my allusions to the past year are not the most joyful or victorious on the surface. But they are. Oh they are. Every day we get out of bed and move our feet is victorious. Every hour we don’t give in to the overwhelming hopelessness that tries so hard to envelope us is victory. Every day that we CHOOSE to see the joy and  purpose in our lives instead of the barren space of loss that has hollowed out our souls and hearts is an opportunity for victory and for JOY to win over DEATH. 

More than a home was lost that day. That was the beginning of what feels like the unraveling of our family. Choices were made. Relationships were altered. Words were hurled and landed in as damaging a pattern as the fire that day. But, much like that burn scar that once was a home, there is healing. Our family has been altered. But it is still there, trying to come back together. It will never be the same. And truthfully, I wouldn’t want it to be that way. I’m praying for it to be BETTER. Stronger. Deeper. Lovely. 

One year. 

The pieces are still coming together. There is no assurance as to what is next. But we wake up. We move our feet. We smile. We cry. We remember. We forget. 

Another year will pass, Lord willing. Or not. If it does, it too will hold heartache and joy, laughter and tears. And in time, the sharp sting of loss will dull. But that space will still be there. Different. But remaining. 

And that is where we find ourselves. REMAINING. 

“remain in Me, and I will remain in you” - Jesus. 

The Updated Version: Nine Months (written in June)

My life seems to be barreling forward at ridiculous speeds lately. I've got an almost 20 year old charging the way, and a birthday last month that wrenched me out of the comfortable "mid thirties" range. Life has settled into the predictable hum of summer, air conditioner struggling to keep up with the demand the 100+ heat is placing on it. Ice clinks in mason jars filled with water and alternately shakes and iced coffee. Fascinating the way that life continues when you think it should stop. But that is the beauty of it. Flowers will blossom even if your heart feels dead. The sun will continue its daily rising, and its spectacular setting. The breezes will blow and the season will change. The heat of last summer has marked us eternally, for it was in summers last heralded farewell that it crisped the majestic trees of autumn, rendering them forever dry and blackened. The hillsides still bear the scars of mothers natures fury, though here and there little green shoots continue to breed new life on the charred landscape. And the crater that we once called home is fast becoming one with earth again, weeds and growth strangling out the last images of what once housed a family, the remnants of memories now. Nine months have passed since the firestorm that darkened our lives, illuminating those parts where fear could paralyze, the desire to hold to material things obliterated in the aftermath of the monster. Nine months grows and births a child. In our case, nine months is growing a healing and knowing, an intimacy with our God on a level we hadn't realized possible. The generous provisions of our friends and family still remind us on a daily basis that He is our Provider. The monthly calls from insurance serve as reminders that the process is still in progress. The echoes of fear still resonate somewhat, particularly now that the heat is blazing and the sound of helicopters and sirens putting out the seasonal California wildfires reverberate through our bodies, causing our teeth to set on edge and our hearts to pound out a too fast rhythm. Dread clouded eyes scan the horizons for  plumes of smoke, and spirits are reminded to remember God our Protector.
     "I'll walk through the fire, with my head lifted high, and my spirit revived in Your story" -Glorious Ruins by Hillsong.

    In the nine months since the Valley Fire, resiliency and rising are words used to describe our community. And its true. Skeleton homes are being erected daily, their bones rising out of ashes and welcoming new memories to be etched in new walls. People work and live and laugh again. But there are those vacancies too. Lots abandoned, owners unable to rebuild or remain...people that make up this tapestry of humanity gone and pieces missing.
    In our family, I feel fractured. Like a broken leg that was not set properly. We move forward, we walk in gratitude and grace, but at the same time, there are pieces that may not ever quite be put back together. One of our daughters moved out and is living nearby. This was not my vision after the fire. I saw a family knit closer than ever, and while I trust in Gods heart for that in my life, sometimes the reality collision course with my hopes and dreams just leaves a lot of wreckage to sort through.
   When life seems back to normal, bedding and couches, clothing and routine, all seems as though nothing happened, there is a tendency within me to be harsh with the emotional fallout. I've had to remind myself time and again that nine months ago we all experienced a traumatic event that is still unraveling in our spirits and minds. There is such a tension between walking into the future while living in the grace and healing from the past. It is paradoxical and frustrating and exhausting. Still, the hope that we live in, the knowledge that we can go through something traumatic and still live and breathe and love one another is stronger than the pain and smothering heartbreaks we wrestle with.
One of my lessons in this is that to mourn the death of dreams is as holy as seeking the dream. To let go of the perceived promises, the intricate piecing of house and home, family and marriage, self and others...to be able to accept with open hand the reality, and to still have courage to dream again.... that is a hard and holy thing. To let God breathe into your spirit and revive those parts that are afraid to dream because you are afraid to lose...it is truly the embodiment of trust and faith and the goodness that I cling to and could never live without. To trust His plan and that HE is not dependent upon the goodness of people, or the government, or whatever company you've been putting your future in.... His hands are far stronger, far more loving, and it is His hands that can multiply your little and turn it into so much more than you can ask or imagine.
  So, we are ok. We are breathing, and praising, and laughing, and weeping. We are trusting and hoping, and dreaming again. We are inspired and scared, secure and not.... we are all the emotions and all the messiness that comes with living with loss, living with blessing... living this life.
   We need prayer (always). We need space to breathe and come to grips with where we are. We need each other and you. But mostly, we need and know God. We believe that in His Resurrection power is all that we need to be revived when we feel faint, His stripes provide all the healing we could ever need, and His Word sustains us even when we feel like we are in the aftermath of a war.

"Let the ruins come to life, by the power of Your Name, 

  rising up from the ashes, God forever You Reign, 

 And my soul will find refuge, in the shadow of Your wings, 

 I will love You forever, and forever I'll sing" 

  GLORIOUS RUINS 

    Hillsong