the grace of peace

It has been nine months since the fire. I can still smell the smoke. I can still feel the hot air rushing into my mouth and streaming through my nostrils. Still I can feel it filling up my lungs. I can still feel the icy water, the water that had moments before been trampled snow, slowly saturate the socks that covered my feet. I can still feel the lump of panic rising in my throat. I can still feel the sting of unbidden, unwanted tears. And there is that Peace; that inexplicable, beautiful Peace that was, and is, my constant companion.

It was three in the morning. I was at home and about a week into my Christmas break. I woke up from a deep sleep to a feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was not right. Quickly I slipped from beneath thick layers of blankets and lightly set my warm feet on the wood floor of my bedroom. As I walked the short length of my room I heard crackling and seemed to see the soft glow of a fire. My first assumption, with my mind still drunk with sleep, was that it was Christmas Eve, and my parents, as is their tradition, were diligently wrapping our presents by firelight. However, I soon came to my senses as I realized that there were at least two weeks left until Christmas. As I stepped out of the open door of my room I was greeted by a horrifying sight. I watched as bright orange flames licked up the great room wall behind our sofa. I was paralyzed for a moment, stunned by the sharp slap of reality. “Do something, Danielle!” I commanded myself. Though I felt like a mute; I managed to convince my lungs and vocal chords to do their job. I screamed for my dad. I yelled out his name three times. “Thank you, Jesus!” I thought as I heard the distinct sound of my dad’s heavy footsteps running from his bedroom and across the kitchen floor. Somehow the hurried clamber jump-started my body and mind into action. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a large mixing bowl from a bottom cupboard. Sprinting back into the great room I flung open the back door and dug the bowl into the deep pile of freshly fallen snow. I had never before been so grateful to be living in Michigan, the land of the frozen tundra. My dad immediately followed suit. Sometime during the commotion my mom called the fire department and hurried my younger siblings out of the house and into the front yard. The smoke was growing thick and black; the fire bright and angry. The clashing effect of dark and queerish light was ghastly. There was no fighting the rage of the fire. Each douse of snow seemed only to entice the fire to new heights of fury, but we couldn’t stop. My dad and I could not admit defeat. We fought. I could hear the frantic pleas of my mom and sisters to get out of the house; that the firemen would be there soon enough. I couldn’t. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. I couldn’t just stand by and watch the hungry flames destroy my home. I gasped in the fresh air one more time and headed back into the black with another bowl of snow; one more feeble attempt.

It seemed an eternity had passed before the firemen and police arrived. They brought out their hoses and finally quenched the consuming flames with powerful streams of water. Standing in the driveway, my feet wet and cold, I wrapped my arms around my chest and silently screamed out to Jesus. “Why?!” He listened to me rage for a moment. He allowed me to beat my fists against His chest. Then He wrapped His thick, powerful arms around my shaking, frail body. He held me close and whispered gently, sweetly in my ear, “I am here. I love you. I know what I am doing. Remember, Danielle, you promised Me that whatever I asked of you, you would give willingly, even if it was your very life.” I remembered, and I was comforted.

Since the fire my life has, from a human perspective, been in various stages of turmoil and unrest. I pray for a taste of stability everyday. However, Jesus, the giver of peace that passes all understanding, reminds me that in Him I find all the stability I will ever need. He is my peace amidst the storm, or in this case, the fire.