Just before daylight, an arsonist redefines reality with the strike of a match.
That single spark ignites a firestorm that consumes over 1000 acres of vegetation. A furious fire, fueled by months of drought, leaves the mountain blackened and defaced.
Usually, in late fall or early winter, the southern slope of the mountain I live on looks like an old man’s unshaven face…bare trees sticking up like a week’s worth of whiskers.
Post arson, a large blackened swath denotes the journey of the flames as the fire climbed to the top of the mountain, and another darkened area gives testament to the fire’s path back down, carried on strong, shifting winds.
The old man of the mountain has lost his usual whiskery look in places, as though a torrent of tears stained his cheeks black, tree stubble gone, only bare earth remaining.
The mountain is wounded.
In the weeks following the fire, I feel:
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Grief…every time I drive home from town, I see the marks of the fire, ever-present reminders of loss. My home, though spared, reeks of smoke.
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Shifting expectations…due to the fire and the havoc it wrought.
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Obsession…about what is happening to the wildlife that lived in the path of destruction.
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Anger…towards the faceless arsonist who has shaken our world.
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Fear…because he/she remains at large.
Time passes. The bleakness of winter fades. Spring arrives. Though scarred, the flush of new life is “greening up” the old man’s face.
The climate of my heart changes, also.
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Fear is replaced with rejoicing about a God who always provides.
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Anxiety shifts to awe at the generosity and love shown by friends when my family and I had to evacuate our home.
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Terror gives way to thankfulness for the spirit my husband, children, and grandchildren displayed as we pulled together to create good memories in a time of tragedy.
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Panic is forgotten when I offer up prayers for the thousand firefighters who stood on the old man’s face for a week and kept flames from claiming all.
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Worry caves under the weight of worship.
