One Ninety

I’m up writing at 3:51 a.m. after a mostly solid sleep that ended in panic. Reliving my first moments of the day of the house fire. Over the past few years, I have learned a little more about trauma; namely my own personal experience of it. Perhaps the most important takeaway is a better awareness of what trauma feels like in my body. I don’t think most people spend their lives thinking about trauma as something that will happen to them. In my case I think I mentally and emotionally equated trauma with tragedy—you know, the terrible stuff—and therefore dissociated from it. But I could only outrun it for so long.

I guess a house fire is a terrible thing.

Now, I’ve begun to unravel the defenses (so to speak) so that I can look the things that hurt me in the face. Which means, at least right now, that I know what it feels like when those defenses are triggered, and that there are immediate things I can do to address how I’m feeling. I know that when I wake up feeling the same way I felt when I got the call—the whole side of your house is on fire [Oh no… how bad—is it bad?] Yeah, it’s pretty bad. I’m really sorry—it is time to get up, find a new place, a new posture, and a new activity. It is time to have an open and honest conversation with myself about what’s happening to me.

I’m not much of a journaler, but there is comfort in explaining this to you.

You, who were there with me. You, who called me to tell me what was happening at the scene. Who met me at my car when I parked in front of your house because I couldn’t get down to mine. You, who stood with me in the cold and slush and watched with me in silent disbelief. You, who cared for my kids. You, who put your hat and gloves and boots on my wife. You, who made coffee and ordered Jimmy John’s. You, who stopped what you were doing and drove more than two hours to get to me. You, who put on your gear and responded to the call—it’s your job, after all—but nevertheless risked your own life to make sure my family was safe.

You, who prayed. You, who gave.

At the end of that day, Laura and I were totally exhausted. As we headed to a new location for the night, reality sunk in. Our things were gone. Including essentials. We needed clothes to sleep in. We needed toiletries. We needed … everything. I remember thinking, God, where are You in all of this? I wouldn’t call it doubt. It was more like wonder. It verged on awe. In the same way I knew my house was gone [fact], I also knew God was with me [also fact]. My head knew, and my heart knew. Despite the trauma.

Then, I was in Target.

The lights were brighter and more sterile than I remembered. It was too quiet. I was in a daze. I walked slow and shopped even slower. What do I need? What am I missing? The basics. Some things for the kids, a toothbrush, a few clothes. I wish I had my own comfy clothes to sleep in. After an eternity, it was time to leave. We found a self-checkout kiosk and scanned our items. Our first act of replacement. The first of many. We owed $189.07. We dug through our pockets, somewhat surprised to discover random bills that weren’t there before. Who gave me these twenties? Oh, you have some, too? Where’d this hundred come from? Our family and friends and neighbors, and probably a few strangers to boot, had literally just given us the cash they had on them. I didn’t even remember who, or who had given what. But there was cash.

One hundred and ninety dollars even.

It’s a couple weeks later, but I am still thinking about this one ninety. It was miraculous. It was lavish. It was what our hearts needed most in that desperate moment. Immeasurably more than we could ask or imagine. It was God’s presence in a sum of dirty, crumpled bills.

This world is stunning. But it’s a burnt-out husk compared to what God intended when He designed it. Many, many years ago, when I was a scared, angry kid desperate to be seen and loved, ashamed of the darkness in my own heart and mind, with all the questions and none of the answers, God found me. On the road to nowhere, I met Jesus. What was He doing there? He was waiting for me. And He made me a promise. He knew everything about me (Psalm 139) and loved me anyway (Matthew 9:9-13). He was with me and was never going to abandon me (Matthew 11:28-30). Following Him was not going to be easy (John 16:33), but it was going to be good (John 10:10). He has been with me through everything since. Heights like college graduation, marriage, the birth of my children, traveling the world, and deep, real friendships. Depths like the deaths of those close to me, 2 miscarriages, losing jobs, mental health crises, broken relationships, financial ruin, and now a house fire. But we are not alone.

I may cry every time I think about my son’s stuffed animals that he loved so dearly and made me track down every night so that he could finally settle down in his bed—the ones that burned in the fire, never ever to be seen again—but Bluey and Curious George can be replaced. Memories can be documented. Houses can be rebuilt. Hope remains among the ashes. What is broken will be made right. The long work will be completed. And until that day comes, there is an adventure afoot. There is provision for today. There is healing and growth ahead.

Onward.