On June 26, 2012, in Colorado Springs, CO, the unthinkable happened. A raging wildfire that began in Waldo Canyon four days earlier, jumped the Douglas fir, cedar, and evergreen-lined ridge separating it from the city, and spewed it's venomous crimson flames into the Northwestern neighborhood of Mountain Shadows. In the fury of its wake, the Waldo Canyon Fire left 347 families homeless, a landmark restaurant and ranch in ruins, and cost a septuagenarian couple, Bill and Barb Everett, their lives. A popular destination for hikers, runners, and tourists yearning to drink in the wilderness of Colorado, one year later, Waldo Canyon is still not open to the public. Although those directly impacted by its destruction have begun to rebuild, and have, in the midst of grief, found the strength to move forward, the charred remains of timberlines, the vacant home lots, the plethora of new homes in various states of construction--each allow any passerby a reminder that the scars from this disaster run deep. Those scars heal, but will always show off their proud "war wound" status in the landscapes, and in the hearts of those who lost memories and all material possessions.
The second largest city in Colorado, Colorado Springs had never experienced anything like this. Collectively, it's citizens reeled from the heartbreak, and rallied together to provide an outpouring of support for the victims. Although we understood the facts--that Colorado experiences severely dry weather in its summer months, and wildfires can ignite in a split second, we prayed for healing, and we prayed that this tragedy would serve as a reminder that we are not in control. We prayed that we'd remember perspective, and that we'd never undergo a collective natural disaster again in our lifetimes. Life began to move along again, as it has the annoying tendency of doing, and we experienced the joy and heartache, mourning and rejoicing that does not halt despite the purging and scorching of the land.
But, fifty weeks later, as the city prepared to both celebrate and mourn on the one year anniversary, it happened again. The Black Forest Fire, in the Northeast corridor, sparked on June 11, 2013--an otherwise pleasant, sun-baked Tuesday afternoon. As I spotted the smoke more than ten miles from the ignition site, and breathed in acrid air for the second time in less than a year, I knew that the outcome would be grim. Today, one week later, the fire stands at 65% containment--our firefighters, and those from companies in other states, battled fearlessly to gain ground, and it seems that they've managed to beat this beast back--the once 300 foot blazes now whimpering, smoldering "hot spots". However...15, 000 acres serve as blackened and smoky reminders of a chaotic week. 502 homes (in the latest count) have burned to the ground--their structures eradicated, but the memories and security they provided to their residents linger like storm clouds in the singed atmosphere. Over 41,000 citizens were uprooted from their day to day existences in a mandatory evacuation zone. And two lives--lives that impacted countless around them, lives of which the details are still undisclosed--were tragically lost.
Although my family lost our home to arson when I was six, I cannot even begin to fathom what the 850 families rendered homeless by these events (and those with homes still standing-- left to pick up the pieces of their neighborhoods and their lives) are experiencing. But as a part of this city, as a part of this community, I am in awe at the optimism expressed by many victims and my heart hurts for those left utterly broken by what has occurred--the days and weeks and months ahead will no doubt contain many mountains and valleys for all affected. And, as I process through what this means for the city that I love, the place that is "home" for me above any other, I discover a few things that I want to share....
*MOUNTAINS OF GATORADE*
I left Colorado Springs to live and work in Los Angeles in the early aftermath of the Waldo Canyon Fire, and returned only a couple of weeks before the Black Forest Fire. I'm not sure what the significance of this is, but I feel that it is important for me to be here--to help and comfort others, but also to learn vital lessons and go through painful refinement in my own life. My own struggles and issues, while valid, are so very minuscule compared to the chaos surrounding me. And as I began to question whether God or my own volition had "called me back", as doors I tried to enter remained shut and padlocked, I stopped in frustration...And then I smelled smoke.
I took my eyes off of my own bulky and tarnished trunk of baggage, and as soon I was able, headed out to volunteer to help. This is not an entirely altruistic or Godly action on my part--I was bored and depressed, my crystal clear vision of Life felt cloudy and confused, and I wanted to do...something that had nothing to do with me--I was getting on my own nerves. I'd spent too much time by myself over the previous two weeks, and I needed a break. I wanted to feel as though I was, in a small way, helping to diffuse the enormous pain and tragedy. I wanted to feel as though my God truly had a purpose in all of this, on a large scale, but also as though He had a specific purpose for me, as an individual, in the campfire clouds of my city.
I headed to our local (and as far as I know, only) food bank, Care and Share, where I was assigned to a loading bay, and began to carry and then sort the groceries dropped off by cars. I arrived at 8:45 a.m.--not bright and early, but brighter and earlier than I'd been scheduled to be anywhere in a good amount of time. The volunteers and staff alike stood in stunned silence as we watched the ominous flames and billowing smoke blow toward us from a few miles northeast. We shared our memories of Waldo, and grief we could not truly articulate for those who were experiencing this tragedy again. We donned face masks as the wind blew and made it increasingly difficult to breathe. And we quietly went about our duties, thanking each donor as they dropped off goods for the firefighters and displaced residents.
Initially, the cars trickled in--one or two every seven minutes. Local news crews were there, and they wondered aloud what, specifically, the Care and Share staff felt was needed, in terms of donations. A spokesperson focused on snacks and dried food/ goods, but also mentioned that Gatorade would be great for those fighting the fires--at that point, we'd only received three twelve packs of the "thirst aid". This was approximately 9:45 a.m.
By 10:30 a.m., we were eight cars deep at the loading docks, and the first driver in my loading bay beamed as he popped open his trunk to reveal twenty five--yup, twenty five--cases of Gatorade. He told me to get ready, because he'd just come from CostCo, and said, "There must be five hundred people there, buying stuff to bring to you." I felt a pull at my heart and a lump in my throat, but figured he must be exaggerating. He wasn't.
Within half an hour, the line of cars poured from our parking lot. It stretched down the hill, through three lights, and out onto Powers Boulevard--a busy thoroughfare in town. That line of cars, full of people who wanted to do anything that they could to help, would grow to be about a mile and a half long. And by two o'clock, Care and Share had received about 40,000 bottles of Gatorade, along with a plethora of food and monetary donations.
I personally spoke with drivers who'd driven in from towns three-four hours away, simply to donate. By two thirty, I was drenched in sweat, my limbs felt like putty, and I was overwhelmed. I needed time to process all of this. And so, I left Care and Share, and sat for an endless amount of time, frozen in my car, and thanking God.
I try, each time I post a piece on this blog, to leave God out of the equation--I hate "preachy", sanctimonious, heavy-handed essays, and I know at least one of my five readers does not know my God/ doesn't get His central role in my Life. However, I can't. I can't leave God out, because the Truth of the matter is, He is an integral a part of everything I ever experience, and even when we can't see it, He is the only link in all that we each experience--the hysterically funny...the horrifically bad...the deep and profound...the frustating and uncertain...He's the only constant character in each part of our stories. He knows that we will experience anger, and heartbreak, and confusion, and distress, but He still stands, ready to take our burdens onto Himself.
I thanked God for how amazing this community is--for how the people of Colorado Springs, like no other place I've ever lived, always step up to help one another. A somewhat sizeable city, the Springs has it's share of violent crime, shattered relationships, and corruption, and I've been known in the (totally distant;-)) past to bemoan the creative and cultural void here. But if a member of our "family" is in need, we trip over each other as we sprint toward them to help. The sense of community here is, in a word, life-changing.
...I thanked Him for overwhelming me with the fact that He is bigger than this tragedy, and He is bigger than the seemingly insurmountable junk in my own life. He will work in the lives of those devastated this week, and He is weeping with them. He is wrapping His arms around them, and me, and you in the midst of our struggles...as our hearts break, so does His.
Lastly, today, I thanked Him for the second impressive rainbow He has allowed me to view in less than a month...I was out on Woodmen Road, for a run in pelting rain that felt cleansing and freeing, and I glanced over to the wide, open view of the Black Forest. My gaze fell on a double rainbow, arcing it's way out of the ashes and into the city of Colorado Springs. And I felt my eyes doing that leaky thing that I hate. Like faucets, they poured out onto my cheeks and I was once again overwhelmed...by the hope that whispers to each of us--the water that douses the flames of whatever we are facing, if only we let it.
