For They Shall Be Comforted
When tragedy strikes close to home, Christ's beatitude, 'Blessed are they that mourn,' takes on a much deeper meaning.
Articles within this series
Monday, Oct. 22, 10:30 p.m.
My home may burn down tonight. Mom and dad’s is probably gone, along with grandma and grandpa’s. This is the worst fire in Fallbrook’s history, and it may just be getting started. I’m in a fire station bunk because I didn’t want to sleep at home tonight—might not wake up in time if the fire makes it into town. We'll see how many are homeless come tomorrow.
The day of that journal entry, 11 family members, including my wife and three young nephews, evacuated to my in-laws' house on the coast. I stayed in Fallbrook, Calif. as a primary newspaper journalist to report on the Rice Canyon fire and other important stories. The next morning, my suspicions of the probable losses suffered by my father and mother and my mother's parents—the two eldest generations of our clan—were confirmed when I saw ash spread over skeletons of steel. No remnants of rooms or yard furniture or even the 50 year old trees that had graced the grounds—nothing was left.
Four in my family were homeless. They lost everything which couldn't be packed into their cars on the way out. The Rice fire in Southern California burned 9,000 acres—claimed 206 homes. It came to within about a mile of my house before a merciful stilling of the winds put an end to the most terrifying event in our town's history.
I phoned my sister once I had seen the wreckage, understanding it would be easier on my parents to know for certain whether their home had been destroyed. The next time I checked in, my wife said dad and mom had greeted the news with humor. He "would no longer have his projects to worry about,” and she "was due for a new wardrobe,” they joked.
Inspired and Humbled
I was thankful for their upbeat attitudes—the grace they had shown in this crisis, the genuine joy in the midst of loss—choosing to focus on God's blessings of good health and family. Their example inspired and humbled me. By biblical standards, I acted more like the rich young ruler (Matt. 19:16-22), packing my car full of stuff I couldn't imagine losing and driving it around with me all week until the fire had subsided.
But not for a moment was I lulled into thinking my parent's optimism would negate the struggle that lay ahead—a struggle to settle down again at a time when each had marked their 60th birthday. A struggle to replace the furniture where they'd rocked grandchildren, to fill a strange new house with all the items necessary to live, then to call that unfamiliarity "home.”
One of the most tragic moments for me came after I noticed that my mother had been acting oddly since the loss of her house, her nest. She was having difficulty following conversation, repeating herself and losing her train of thought. It was aggravating, at a time when communication was more important than ever. Then I recognized she was disoriented.
It made sense. If I was displaced and most of my familiar material things were gone, how would I be able to reason, to hold a conversation—especially if those things were tied to precious memories and to stability in living.
Out of that observation grew a deep compassion for my parents—not for what they had lost, but for what they faced in the process of replacing it all. Everyone who phoned out of sympathy asked my folks what they would do, where they would live, what their next step was. The answer was always the same in those early days.
"We don't know.”
What a heavy horde of decisions for a retired couple just recovering from two decades of financial stress. In their mobile home, they were turning the corner on debt. They were comfortable there. It wasn't mom's ideal home with a sunset view, but she enjoyed walking on the nearby golf course and taking my nephews to the pool. Dad was almost done renovating the lot into a garden they would have been proud to show off, after years of never having a yard worth enjoying.
I always knew the responsibility of helping care for my parents would come someday. I just didn't know someday would come so soon. Thankfully, the help they need is not the physical kind. It is more emotional and spiritual. They need to know that my sister and I will help them enact the decisions they make in the recovery process, that our doors are open while they remain homeless. They will need to know that our support for them goes deeper than words, and extends into our presence and prayers. But that is how they raised us, so it comes naturally, now.
Other forms of help will make themselves obvious with time. Within days of discovering their loss, I was getting dozens of phone calls from friends asking, "What can I do?” All I could say was that I didn't know, but if something came up, I'd call them. A few callers offered homes for my parents to stay in; others offered money. What they were all offering was love, and what they all wanted, I knew, was to be among the comforters who would restore my family.
Powerful Statement
When Christ said in the Beatitudes, "Blessed are they that mourn,” I wonder how it sounded to his audience. It certainly took me a long time to grasp how He could make such a statement, and how the statement could be so powerful. Now, following the loss in my own family, the second half rings true: "…for they shall be comforted.”
Watching this tragedy unfold has taught me that the heavenly comfort which follows pain is much sweeter than the pain is bitter. In the place of grief one finds hope and warmth—that is to say, family, whether it be the blood-related type or the spiritual brothers and sisters God has placed alongside the rough road we all, at times, must walk. We find, in truth, Christ—living, loving, holding us close forever.