Sanctification over Comfort; the power of GRIEF pt 1

When my husband smiled at me, with humor in his eyes and strength in his posture, I knew what he was saying without a spoken word between us. Flames were blazing out of the roof of our (new) home, ear piercing detectors screaming from every room jolted any human within half a mile, concerned neighbors were running out out into the street to witness the spectacle of a house on fire. Neighbors we had not even met yet. Our children cried quietly on the grass of the neighbor’s lawn across the street, mourning the inevitable loss of childhood treasures, favorite books, irreplaceable pictures, their coziest pillow. While the firefighters were occupied with impressive industry and organization (that deserves a post on it’s own!), my husband’s reassuring smile to me was not flippant, it was resolve.

-6 months prior, in California-

“John, I think we really need to update the kitchen and master bath to be able to get a good price on this house.”

“Agreed. Let’s do it!”

-We remodel said house and put it on the market to sell. Done. A few days after listing the home, a plumber breaks a water line in the attic, flooding all three floors of much of the house, including the newly remodeled master bathroom, the master bedroom, closet, an office, and a game room. I cry. We lose many personal items; furniture, books, computers, etc, in addition to the damage to the house. Painfully, we take the house off the market, which was acutely discouraging to do as we were already in escrow on a new house in Texas. The overwhelming task of repairs and insurance battles commence. We complete the repairs on the house WHILE remodeling our (next) newly purchased dream home in another state. Excited for the new home, and attempting to put the past in the past, we pile into our car to move the last of our belongings across state lines. I breathe a sigh of relief knowing we will arrive at a house that is DONE, no more remodeling, no more dust and plastic sheeting, no more washing dishes in a bathtub. On the cross country drive I suffer a (practically instant onset) massive tooth infection in my jaw that lands me in the urgent care and on antibiotics. In spite of my reluctance to most western medicine, I knew antibiotics was non-negotable. In fact, in the middle of the night (in our hotel room) I wake my husband, telling him if I did not get antibiotics soon I would die. He takes one look at me and agrees wholeheartedly. It takes all of my energy to crawl into the car. John drives us to the closest open urgent care. After our stop over at urgent care and a pharmacy we get back on the road. Our Yukon is now containing one dad, who is doing all the driving, three kids, who want to get there already, one irritable cat who has never been in a moving vehicle, and me, now drugged and looking like I lost a round to Rocky Balboa. John is (rightfully) worrying about me as he witnesses my face stretch to a red, shiny balloon four times its normal size and I vomit up the first round of painkillers and antibiotics into a ziplock bag. I am beyond miserable and knew my first task in our new home state would be to get to a holistic dentist as quickly as possible.

Arriving the next day, we are tired yet thankful, to be in our home, our new home. Our newly remodeled, new home. It is a dream come true. The new home is clean and ready for us. No plastic sheeting, no unpainted drywall, no damage to deal with. Some sweet friends (teen girls) fly out to help us move in and organize. Our moving pods are delivered to the driveway and we start the unpacking and moving in. All is on target! The needed surgery to remove the infected tooth and receive a bone graft in my jaw is scheduled in two weeks.

As I happily unpack silverware I hear it. Smoke detectors. My first thought is, “What the heck? It cannot be an ACTUAL FIRE.” I run upstairs and am shocked to discover smoke filling the ceiling quickly. I yell to the kids and start counting them as they make themselves known. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. I knew John was in a detached garage. GG is the first to the front door and yells back into the house,“There are flames coming out of the roof!”, trying to remain composed, she has a calm urgency that is commendable. We pile out into the front yard, I am on the phone with 911, in autopilot mode. Stuff matters not in this moment. Nothing. Not one book, picture, computer, heirloom, favorite coat. NOTHING matters but my humans, and a cat, kinda. We all realize the cat is in the house and the eldest boy, 16 at the time, runs in to get him. The fire was in the attic and had not breached the second floor yet, much less the first. Said cat is in a front room, no hunting for him needed, so I am fine with this act of heroics on my son’s part to retrieve his favorite pet. Charlie Cat now safe in B’s arms, the kids all collapse on the lawn across the street. John meets us in the front and we have only a few seconds of stunned silence before the fourteen fire engines line up on the quiet cul de sac. Neighbors pour out to see if we need anything. I am pretty sure I am braless, in the ugliest shorts I own, barefoot, no make up, greasy hair a messy ponytail, and my face is still red and swollen (though healed a smidge past boxing bout level). I don’t know if I have ever looked worse. Hello new neighbors. It’s us, the Brocks, here to trash the beautiful community as soon as humanly possible.

But here is what happened. These neighbors brought us cold water. They brought out chairs. Seeing our teens they brought bags of shoes. “I have boys too, see if these work”, “I saw you have some teen girls (not all mine, but yes), I hope some of these clothes fit”, “We have plenty of room with our kids in college, please sleep at our house tonight if you don’t want to go to a hotel”. To my kids, “What is your favorite brand and flavor of ice-cream? Do you guys like steak? We will have that ready for you, we will keep it. It does not matter if it is ten o’clock at night, let us serve you dinner”, “Tell us what you need now, I will go to Target now, pajamas, food?”

Unbridled tears flowed. I embraced perfect strangers in a mingling of sorrow and gratitude like I had never known. I comforted my children, who were mostly quiet and trying to keep it together. Then I turned to see my husband, he was being questioned by one of the fire chiefs on scene. He locked my gaze and smiled. I knew, 20 plus years into marriage, what that smile meant. It was his, “Yes, Lord, we will do this” smile. His, “ok, you ready for an adventure?” smile. His, “We can do this”. He was not angry, or even sad, he was loving me, and leading us into an opportunity to be sanctified. Suddenly, the flood we had at our previous house seemed like child’s play.

It seemed the outside structure of the house was intact, but the fire had devastated the attic, roof, and some of the second floor. What was untouched by flames was ravaged by smoke and water. Every object, every single fiber in the home, was weighed down by water and smoke within a few hours, so that which did not burn was still lost. Doing their job, the firefighters put so much water through the house that it “rained” for days and days. The ceiling and insulation fell in heavy in chunks, crashing down every few minutes, the walls peeled themselves burdened with the weight of black water, puddles formed into ponds, rodents came to burrow and feast, and mold and mildew grew on almost every surface in the humid June heat.

This was more than replacing some floors and a desk, this was more than a few rooms with some water damage. This was almost total loss of personal belongings. Before we were even fully moved in. The seven of us (remember, we have two extra girls with us at this point) live in a hotel for a few weeks before moving into a rental home close by.

But here is what happened. My husband and I (remember that knowing smile?) knew our kids were watching us. We knew their faith could be encouraged or shredded by us. We knew that it is just stuff. We put on our gratitude like the armor of God, meaning it was a choice to PUT ON. Not feel, not experience, not hope for. This had to be a strong decision. Put it ON Heather. Oh, it could have been so much worse. Oh, all those sweet neighbors, talk about the hands and feet of Jesus. Oh, the opportunity…yes, opportunity…to be forced to grieve the temporal. STUFF. Even special stuff, like all my Bibles, journals, grandmother’s hand written recipe cards, family made quilts, baby keepsakes….did I mention BIBLES?

Around two days after the fire we go into the home to survey damage and collect guns, jewlery, etc, damaged or not they must be removed. My eldest son and I find a smoke covered, waterlogged box of smokey insulation and concrete like sheetrock in his room. I dig out my son’s entire AWANA/Bible Bowl career…awards, completed books, pins, patches, notes, flashcards, and I weep. “Maybe we can clean these pins? They are metal, they might wash up?!? Maybe if we dry these pages out we can save some of this? Maybe we can save part of those trophies if we take them apart…” Desperately, and almost frantically, I dig my hands into the toxic box of black-smoke covered, wet, beloved treasures, groping for anything I can salvage. “Mom! It is JUST stuff. The work I did to get it did not go away. The stuff does not matter. I am not going to need any of this when I am older. It is ok”. In THAT moment I realized my “grief” over losing stuff like the “treasures” in this box was PRIDE. How prideful I had been. My child did THIS and my child did THAT, and he won THIS and he won THAT, and it was about the BIBLE so that means I am a good mom. He humbled me. The realization of my idolatry humbled me. Those little pins recording his accomplishments were nothing more than metal. He knew it before I did. I knew we would replace most things, but Oh, my PRIDE was hurt to lose things that made me, or my children look Godly, even if they were never displayed. God taught me, through the fire, that stuff matters less than I even knew, though I was never a highly sentimental person (nor a pack-rat), I still attached a personal, and even spiritual, value to some things. I assumed because I could say, “it is just stuff” when a glass gets broken or a chair gets stained meant that I had little attachment to things. But what when those things make your feel like a “good” something… Even worse, that “good” something is seen as spiritual? Like my Bibles with years and years of wear and tear that “proved” I was in them?

Ephesians 2:8-10 states, “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.”

This verse changed in subtlety after the fire. I knew this verse well, but what I saw in this portion of Scripture after the fire was this part…”which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” He not only knows what hardships we face, He prepared the way of our growth in Him (Sanctification) before the foundations of the earth. He is Sovereign over everything, not only that, He lovingly plots our growth so that His glory is made known and our walk of faith strengthened for good works, lest we should boast. I cannot boast about loss. I cannot make myself the hero of this story. I did not cause these exercises in suffering, nor do I want to repeat them. I Because I did not cause, I cannot boast. Because I cannot boast I cannot take any glory. He planned that we shloud walk this out, and I praise Him for it.

Our loss did not stop there. Nor did our growth. Our opportunity to become more like Christ would continue…. Part 2