Fires, fires, everywhere fires. Not only in California, but throughout the west.
I can’t see the pictures and hear the reports of those fires without shivers of memory running up my back.
We just passed the twentieth anniversary of the Painted Cave fire that destroyed our house in Santa Barbara. When I say destroyed, I mean all our pictures and family heirlooms gone, and also our dog JR and our kitty Puffin. I mean not even a trace of the iron skillets left. I mean we could hardly recognize where our house had stood.
Everything that happens to us in life serves as a lesson. We learn how to depend on God. We learn the goodness and generosity of each other. We learn that a house is just a house.
When we left California for the Pacific Northwest, we moved to a house located between two wide flowing rivers. Ahhh, now there’s security. There’s safety. Several weeks passed before we realized the irony in our new address: We had moved to Noah Street!
Fire, water, and government know nothing of mercy.