“They’re only things,” she said.

Sure…try getting rid of all your ‘things’, I wanted to reply.  But there was no way to convey to someone else the agony of memories that were gone; the loss of a favorite trunk filled with hand-rubbed warmth from a great-grandfather; the missing moments of mystery from a mother’s night-time story book.

Things.

The fire had smoldered for hours, apparently.  They couldn’t agree on exact cause, even exact location, but by the time it ripped its way out of the roof, it was full-fledged.  Flames raced toward the clouds with frantic, desperate fervor.  We watched, still dressed in nightclothes, slippers the only protection against the wet blacktop.  Fragments of glass filtered into the flowerbeds, chunks of charcoal riddled the roses.

I’d heard about fire before–read stories in the paper, sympathized with families who had lost Christmas gifts, furniture, and clothing.  I had felt sorry for those without the comfort of four familiar walls around them anymore.  I knew it would be terrible having to clean, replace or restore what was burned.  But I had no idea of what it was really like.

Fire ascends indiscriminately, lashing out at photographic memories of a mother or grandmother while ignoring snapshots of scenic, sandy beaches.  Hot coals chew edges off grade school pictures of youngsters with missing front teeth, and the residue of ash and flaked carbon plasters souvenir scrapbooks tightly shut.  Fire destroys while it bequeaths piecemeal portions of lives.

Fire demands retrieval from the past to the present.  In the sorting through that followed the flames, we made decisions–what gets saved–what’s worthy of reworking–what gets washed–cleaned–polished, and worst of all–what gets discarded.  Values are turned around–a 79-cent bud vase seems priceless because it survived, a priceless cut-glass pitcher is worthless because it didn’t.  An 8 x 10 ft. storage building is stacked with boxes of what used to be arranged on shelves or hanging on the wall of a 7-room house.  Precious treasures are stuffed in marker-pen labeled boxes, put “somewhere” until there is time to look through later, to see what actually made it.   The house I loved and shined was gone.  The floors I washed and waxed were covered with gray chunks of an overhead ceiling.

It seems the fire got it all.

But that’s only the way it seems.  As I brush off miniscule bits of dusty ash from a family jewelry box, color appears.  Rosy red-toned wood is crackled, but responds to soap and water.  Applying creamy wood polish reveals old, remembered richness.  Hinges are fragile but fixable with good eyesight and tiny screws.  Velvet lined drawers are intact, though no longer soft and silky.  This container meant for careful conveyance of jewels is still able to do its job.  The original beauty of the piece is gone, but in a symbolic sense, its purpose is stronger than ever.  The case stands in almost defiant victory.  The fire did not take away its use.

Every one of us is like that.  Things happen that appear to have eaten away at our edges–to have used us up.  We are buried by ashes; we are covered with tragedy; we are shrouded with sorrow.  We give in to the charcoal chunks of ceiling that have fallen on us from above.  Or do we?  Is it more likely that we give ourselves to the dusting off, the washing up, the starting over that is possible after the fire?

Separate the wheat from the chaff.

Fire cleanses, refines the gold.

Any change hurts, but one of such suddenness is especially painful.  People don’t know what to say, make comments that don’t fit.  Unsure of how to heal our hurt, they make sentences out of platitudes.  They justify trauma with colloquialisms, trying their best to make us feel better.  They hug, they touch, and they care.  Somewhere in there, we appreciate.

We may want to shout–to lash out–to say–“Things?  Try getting rid of all your things!”  But we don’t.  We respond to comments meant with caring, with caring.  We mouth words that fill in the void.  We become closer.  Eventually, we are healed.

The fire did not get it all.  People became closer, expressing concern by giving pots and pans, sharing sympathy by offering shoes, a toaster, microwaves, even underwear.  This fire did not take away, it gave–a new sense of brotherhood–family.  It reminded us how good people are–how giving others want to be.  God did not cause the fire, but He retrieved hearts from the ashes, sent friends from the flames.

Like the jewelry box, we are rubbed and polished.  Thank You, Lord.  You sent us friends and caring.  You gave us the knowledge that your family is worth more than a house, so much more than things.

                                                                                                                  copyright – Myrna Estey Coleman