It was 1:30 a.m., and the phone was ringing. Who would be calling at this hour? I wondered as I turned over in bed, hoping to go back to sleep. We ignored the phone, but then I smelled something strange.
I stepped into the family room and froze. Flames were shooting from the chimney, about to break through the wall into the dining room.
“Get up and call the fire department!” I screamed at my husband. “The house is on fire!”
I threw on my bathrobe and grabbed my computer, phone, and dog while my husband called 911. Then he said, “We need to get the cars out of the garage.”
In the confusion, Mimi, our American Eskimo, wriggled out of my arms and ran back into the house. Panic rose in my throat as I called, “Mimi, come!” Although she had forgotten much of her puppy training, she came running back to me. I breathed a prayer of thanks, got her into the car, and backed down to the street to wait for the fire trucks.
The thermometer read seventeen degrees, but we hardly noticed the cold. Soon we heard sirens. Three fire trucks and an ambulance arrived, and firefighters rushed to attach hoses to the water main.
“Is anyone still inside?” one firefighter asked.
“No,” I answered. “We’re all out — dog too.”
He nodded and disappeared into the furnace of flames. By then the fire had already broken through the roof.
Neighbors, awakened by the sirens, came outside and wrapped us in coats, hats, and gloves as we stood shivering in our bathrobes. Hours later, firefighters finally emerged and told us the fire was under control.
“Thank you so much,” we said. “But why did you send an ambulance? We didn’t request one.”
“Ma’am,” one firefighter explained, “the ambulance is for us. If we’re burned or overcome by smoke, we need immediate medical care.”
“I don’t know what you get paid,” my husband told him, “but it’s not enough.”
I wholeheartedly agreed.
Memories of that night resurfaced recently when fires swept through Brantley County, GA, the county next to ours. More than 22,000 acres burned, forcing evacuations and destroying over one hundred homes. Thankfully, no lives were lost, but those interviewed on television spoke of heartbreak and devastation. One woman lost a home that had been in her family for over a century, along with dozens of paintings created by her grandmother.
I remembered my own grief after the fire — the sadness of losing family heirlooms and the frustration of not even knowing what had survived. A restoration company had packed up whatever could be salvaged and placed it in storage. Eventually, I realized I needed to surrender it all to God and find a way to move forward.
The best remedy turned out to be helping others.
One day I visited a friend recovering from a broken hip in rehab. Another friend there asked, “Do you need furniture for your rental house? I have my mother’s furniture stacked all over my living room. I’d love for you to use it.”
At first I resisted, but when I saw beautiful furniture crowding every inch of her home, I realized this was a God-given solution for both of us.
Releasing my possessions to God brought unexpected freedom. For years I had kept my wedding dress tucked away for no real reason. My daughter could never wear it because we were2different sizes. I assumed it had been destroyed in the fire, but when our stored belongings were returned, there it was — untouched by the flames.
Later, when a mission team from our church requested wedding gowns to take to Haiti, I gladly donated it.
The fire taught me what truly matters. Possessions can be replaced; lives cannot. Serving others helps pull us out of self-pity and reminds us that God is still at work, even in loss. The prophet Isaiah writes:
“See, I have refined you, though not as silver;
I have tested you in the furnace of affliction.”
— Isaiah 48:10
God used our loss to draw us closer to Himself and to refine what mattered most.
