Home.

Home.
Home is a funny word to me now. Our old home back in Seattle? Our current residence "through the woods and over the 'river'"? My childhood home? Each one tugs a heart-string, ruffles memories.

Going back to my childhood home for the first time since the fire had knots and twists in my stomach knowing that I would be stepping into a place that no longer matched my golden-rimmed memories. Of growing up listening to the sounds of the woods. The smell of fresh air and pine. The pungent smell of wet earth after the predictable afternoon thunderstorms. I loved those. Listening to the rain pound outside, lightning flash and thunder roll - vibrating through me - the thrill! Now they just bring added terror and mess.

As I got my first glimpse of the forest after the fire, mom driving around familiar spots and neighborhoods, my mind couldn't quite catch up.

It looks like a winter scene - bare trees starkly standing against a sunset. Of course, it's just winter - they'll return come spring! my mind repeated over and over. Nevermind that it's August and nearing 90 degrees.
It's just winter. Temporary.
Except it's not, and my heart breaks because it doesn't know what else to do.

Just two months after the fire there is promise of life and growth. Green grass is soaking in the rain and growing on ground that isn't completely destroyed. Green needles are taking their stand against the brown ones. Animal life is beginning to trickle back. But even among all of these small, yet giant strides of healing there is still so much.

Two months of working and cleaning and no sleep and there is still so much ash and rubble to be cleared away. So many trees to be cut...or left? A decision no one wants to have to make. Insurance adjuster meetings. Correctly disposing of leftover hunks of life that were never meant to end up this way.

A melted bird feeder

Yet, in the middle of all that black bile - there is the community. The one I love. Couldn't have timed it better to be there for Black Forest Festival - a favorite tradition. Small town parade - this time filled with people refusing to let the fire ruin ritual. Filled with unending gratitude and thankfulness whether all was lost or not - the bravery of first responders is still first on our hearts. Tears streamed down my face mouthing 'thank you' as they paraded by. Firefighters that took the time to leave our neighbor a note saying they were so sorry they couldn't save his classic cars, but they were able to take a stand and save the garage and house. First responders that worked grueling 12 hour shifts fighting so hard to bring the terror to an end - which they did. And the community responding like my dear friend Therese's brother and his wife designing and creating T-Shirts to sell of which proceeds will be able to buy new trees to be planted in the spring. So many stories of loss and heartache and yet so many stories of triumph and hope and joy and I'm just confused. Crying because of sadness or joy? Both. Quiet because of heartache or peace? Both. Breathing in familiar fresh pine air or stale, burnt ash? Both. Nothing is so clean as to be a neat dichotomy. You're forced to sit with both and try to make sense of it, or just be. Ride the waves as they come. Accept the swirl of juxtaposition and extend compassion, always.

Our float! 

Southern Baptist Disaster Relief - what an incredible organization and wonderful people!

A 'fly-by' from one of the helicopters that served and helped drop water on the fire.

These incredible firefighters were the front lines. So thankful for them.

I waited until the last day to walk around my property.
Even though many areas are much much worse, these are the paths I know too well.
Another juxtaposition: being home, the incredible miracle and blessing to be in my childhood home - where everything inside is just as I left it. Untouched. Untarnished. Blissfully the same. Except just outside the windows, it's not the same. It's a reminder of how close we were to never having anything familiar in this space. And walking around seeing my old treasures and memories and pictures still hanging on the wall grabbed deep and shock and sorrow and knowing I don't even come close to understanding the emotions of 486 families that have nothing, nothing to come home to.

The spot where I would wait for the school bus to pick me up...

The only survivor from the camper...silverware. 

And then so much of my trip was devoted to the people that make home home. Celebrating my dad's birthday. Lunch with a sweet family friend. Walking with my momma. Meeting sweet baby Emma for the first time and hugging her momma and big brother and daddy close - such lights in my life. Playing with the kitties. Seeing familiar faces at a familiar church...

Life is not untouched by heartache, this I've seen more clearly in my own backyard, though newspaper headlines have told me this for years. But life is also brimming and moving forward and healing and growing, and sometimes you have a look a little closer in order to see it. And some days just suck. No silver lining. No rainbow. Just darkness. But those too pass. I think its the frailness that gets me. Something so strong and stable as a hundred-year old forest is reduced to ash in a mere 10 days. Humbling.

Reminding me the only thing true and stable is God.
And on a trembling faith I stand and cry out and yell and whisper and sit stunned at all I've seen.
Deep in my soul I believe in God's goodness and grace and love in the midst of chaos unraveling.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, 

and the flame shall not consume you. 

Isaiah 43:2