Those are terrible words of encouragement. Nobody ever gets
up off the floor after being told what he or she just went through isn’t the
worst it could be.
I always think the worst. When I board a plane, I scrutinize
the passengers, hoping we’re worthy of surviving the flight. Babies and
do-gooders won’t be on a plane destined to crash. Angry, destructive people, however,
worry me.
I’m at my best when I fly. I’ll give up my choice aisle seat
and perform other acts of kindness if it means I can live. The lack thereof
could mean we crash.
And while crashing is bad, it could be worse, right? We
could crash and I could survive. I could pass for dead and be buried alive.
I hear burning is miserable. This came to mind when a fire
recently broke out in the state of Colorado (my aunt and uncle live there), and
I thought the worst: What if they can’t
escape?
Luckily, they had time to evacuate. Except my uncle wanted
to fight the blaze with a pressure washer. His home isn’t just a structure with
things inside. It’s his and my aunt’s life—33 years of memories, mementos from
trips representing life-changing experiences, generations of heirlooms.
And while firefighters couldn’t control the flames with
trucks and planes, he felt the pressure washer could do the job.
Eventually, my uncle dropped the wand in mid-spray, and he
and my aunt fled.
“Possessions don’t define you,” people told them. “It could
be worse—you could be stuck there.”
My aunt called me for comfort, as she wasn’t getting it
elsewhere. I took pleasure in knowing I could help. I wouldn’t tell her it
could be worse. I’d be her rock, her guiding light, her Grand Comforter.
She asked for my wife.
Not only did my wife help my aunt feel better, she helped me
feel better as I listened in on the other line. I spent a lot of time in my
aunt and uncle’s house, the woods on their property my childhood playground in
the summer and a snowy wonderland in the winter.
They were going to be OK. I was going to be OK. By the time
we hung up, we all knew the house and the surrounding woods were going to be
OK.
“Pray for us,” my aunt cried into the phone. “Our neighbor’s
house just burned to the ground.”
The very next morning, my aunt called us again. She was
hysterical. The only barrier between my aunt and uncle’s home and their
neighbor’s place was about 30 trees and a dirt road. But we still had hope. The
dividing foliage might go up, but maybe the fire would tiptoe around the house.
After all, my uncle had sprayed the structure down with the pressure washer a
day earlier.
With the right amount of hope, we could save . . .
The sheriff’s report concluded that my aunt and uncle’s
residence was a total loss. A day later the fire passed, and my aunt and uncle
were able to go onto their property to assess the damage and retrieve any
items, if any. My aunt sounded good. I spoke a few powerful lines that,
undoubtedly, put her at total ease.
“If you need anything,” I reminded her, “please call.”
She said she’d call my wife.
“Mraaaaahhh!”
At least I think that’s what she cried when she called back.
Everything, she said, was gone, remnants of nothing but the truck they left in
the driveway, now just a twisted piece of metal. The house and everything in it
was gone. The surrounding forest was gone. Just soot and black sticks.
My time had come to really say something meaningful,
helpful. But I had nothing to say. Nothing. And for what felt like 10 minutes,
I listened to my aunt cry.
All I could think was, It
could’ve been worse—they could’ve gone down with their house.
Members of the family asked what they could do to help. But
there was nothing to be done.
In the days to follow, my aunt and uncle did all they could
do—they tried to move on. They’d rebuild in the future, they said, but far away
from the forest they’d called home for 33 years.
“It can only get better,” I told my aunt.
Terrible words of encouragement. For once I can say it could
not get any worse than that. So I did
what was best for my aunt—I put my wife on the phone.
-June 2013
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