Firestorm!

The temperature had reached 108 degrees F. that afternoon of June 28, so I watched smoke clouds on the horizon with concern.  We live in an arid area, prone to wildfires. I hoped firefighters could knock it down quickly. They couldn’t. Erratic winds pushed a firestorm several miles over parched lands, into the edge of my town.  By early evening,, the radio was broadcasting emergency evacuation alerts affecting thousands. Seeing the encroaching orange glow, I quickly filled two boxes with “must-keep” documents and address books.  I slipped in my Bible. Should I take my violin? It was my father’s. I decided not to.  I handed my husband an overnight bag for a few changes of clothes and filled another for myself.  Would we have to flee in minutes? The border for “Level 2 evacuation” (“be ready to leave on a moment’s notice”) was about one-fourth mile away.  Would it soon change to Level 3 (“get out immediately”) and include us?  I looked around our small, cozy home of 34 years.  We decided to wait and listen to radio-announced evacuations.

 

By morning, we were still in our home. But from the end of our  block we could see blackened hillsides less than half a mile away. We’d later learn that 28 homes were destroyed.  We knew some of their owners, two of them retired teachers who'd taught our now-adult children. A mile away the other direction, flying embers had ignited industrial buildings related to the valley’s fruit processing industry. Acrid smoke boiled for a day.

Living through a “natural disaster” (and emerging unscathed except for the physical letdown when it’s over) made me think again about the big questions of suffering.  This nugget from the Old Testament prophetic book called “Lamentations” (so appropriately named) came to mind: “It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.  They are new every morning: great is his faithfulness”  (Lamentations 3:22). The author of this book (possibly Jeremiah) had watched enemies press in on his native land.  Eventually they’d come to the bloody “last call” of foreign invasion. Did God know? Didn’t He care?  Of course He does. His compassions fail not.

 I pray for that assurance for the stunned fire victims.  I pray it for people I care about who are going through some of life’s spiritual “firestorms.” The day a doctor sits down after tests and says, “I wish I had better news.” Those caring for a loved one they’re losing to dementia or Alzheimer’s.  Dying parents.  Overwhelmed adult children. Wayward adult children.  The devastation of drug addiction or arrest for crime.

The morning after the firestorm, a rainstorm helped wash away the smoke-laden valley air.  As I watched the ten-minute downpour, I remembered, “New every morning.”  It doesn’t say, “Everything is made okay every morning.” It says God’s compassions are new every morning. They’re ours to claim as we walk through the ashes of life, holding His hand.