Waiting For My Missing Piece

crown-gecko-1302347_1280The lizard was tiny and speckled brown, and it ran across the carpet of the new master bedroom as Jake and I played on the floor. Excited to show my toddler a creature he’d never met before, I pointed to it.

“Look, Jakey! A little gecko!”

With the speed and curiosity inherent to boys of his age, my little scientist jumped up, ran to the gecko, and promptly pinned it down by its tail.

The gecko kept moving; the tail did not.

After our first week living in Hawaii, in a house without furniture or air conditioning (with a toddler and a newborn), my coping skills were at their limit.

Without thinking, I squealed. “Oh NO!”

My little boy came running back to me, wide-eyed, almost shaking with fear. “Mama!”

As he threw himself into my embrace—something that happens so rarely these days—I took a deep breath and prepared myself to do damage control. “It’s okay, sweetie. Geckos’ tails grow back. She will be okay. I was just surprised!”

“Oh no,” he repeated, hanging his head. “Oh no.”

How quickly things change from the time our little ones cannot comprehend the words we speak over their heads to the days when they absorb everything we do – our words, our tone of voice, our knee-jerk reactions. The responsibility we carry as parents suddenly shifts from not only providing them their physical needs but ushering in a safe emotional space to inhabit as well.

I held him close and whispered reassurances, but I could feel the weight of what happened settle onto his small shoulders.

Our summer was one of immense upheaval—we introduced him to his baby brother in May and seven weeks later packed our things and said goodbye to the town and the friends who had been the only home he’d ever known. On my mind throughout most of this was how he would handle so much change with so little consistency to cling to.

At a time when we should be phasing out bottles and maybe even diapers, here came a little brother who claimed my attention 24/7 with feeding and changing. And thus my toddler learned the words “Me, too!”

At a time when he needed more supervision and coaching to better understand boundaries and structure and measures of safety, I was distracted and sleep-deprived and ever-ready with the iPad.

At a time when he most needed his Mama and Dada to be loving and encouraging and kind, we were stressed and impatient and short-tempered.

All the while I kept telling myself, Just get through the summer. Soon, my husband would start his new job with more consistent hours. We’d find a church and community to remind us to keep our eyes lifted up and hands extended out toward one another. We’d find a routine and finally figure out how to parent two under two. We’d celebrate all we’d accomplished and the blessed fact that kids are resilient and thrive on even the simplest offerings of love.

Then came the news of my husband’s deployment.

Read more on the Good Mother Project


You Can Do This

pill box feetFriends, here’s the truth: Life has been HARD recently. Hard hard hard hard.


Not necessarily tragic or traumatic or full of drama – just HARD.

You ever have one of those seasons? When it just feels like you can’t catch your breath or catch a break?

We are in the middle of one of those. It’s like monsoon season over here, with a newborn and a toddler and a house full of boxes and a husband who may or may not be deployed this year. It’s been hard.

And being the highly sensitive emotional introvert that I am? Well, let’s just say I’ve lost my cool more than once.

So yesterday, in the interest of self care, as soon as my oldest was down for a nap I handed the baby to my husband and declared, “I’m going up the Pill Box Trail!” I laced up my new purple sneakers and headed out.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into, stubbornly climbing my way up the steep, overgrown embankment making up the initial ascent. All I knew is that I wanted to see the Pill Boxes, I wanted to sit on the edge of the graffiti-covered concrete and stare out into the blue. Whatever came before that would be worth the climb.

So I whispered to myself “It’s okay, you can do this.”

And I remembered in a flash the moments right before my youngest was born–before the move, before the malaise, before whispers of deployment–when the pain was too much and I didn’t think I could go on. I remembered my own hoarse whisper, coaching myself through labor, reminding myself that I could do hard things.

So I kept walking. And climbing. And scrambling. And even scooting on my bum when the trail got too steep. I was slow and perhaps even timid. But I was also tenacious. I kept going.

And I did it. And it made me proud: proud of the body God gave me. Proud of the strength I’ve been slowly building at the gym. Proud of the wisdom it took to take a break from the monotony of motherhood. Proud of the courage it took to stretch into the blue sky and the hot sun and the sandy rocks.

After three hours in the wilderness my feet were worn, clothes sweat-soaked, and fingernails caked in dirt. And when I returned and my oldest approached slowly, quietly asking: “Mama?” as though he wasn’t quite sure I was the same woman who left, I smiled to myself.

It’s about time he meets this version of me, I thought. It’s about time he sees me doing hard things. It’s about time he sees the brave woman I need to be to raise his brother and him well.

It’s about time I see her, too.pill box

Originally shared on the Good Mother Project Facebook page

Liebster Award – Danke Schön!


The lovely Andrea at Show Love Loud nominated me for a Liebster Award (thanks, lady)! The Liebster is given by newbie bloggers to other newbie bloggers in an effort to spread love and awareness of new sites. I love the idea of gathering around each other in this kind of community to share each others’ stories, so I am honored to accept. In turn have nominated 6 other bloggers, to whom I’ve linked at the bottom of this post. Go show them some love. 

Rules for the Liebster Award Nominees:

  • Thank the blog that nominated you on a post in your blog.
  • Answer the questions asked by the blog that nominated you.
  • Nominate 5-11 other new bloggers.
  • Create 11 new questions for the nominees to answer.
  • Notify all nominees via social media.

And now to answer Andrea’s questions!

What is the number one thing on your “bucket list?”

I don’t really have a bucket list, but I have always wanted to go on a hot air balloon ride. I’d also love to go back to Australia with my husband and show him all the sights I fell in love with when I studied there for a semester in 2003.

Do you want to have any (more) kids?

Hmm…we shall see! Considering I’ve spent the last 2+ years pregnant and Baby Boy #2 will join us in 5 weeks, right now the answer is a resounding no. But that could be my aching back and hips talking. Ask me again in a year!

If you could be in any profession and be very successful in it what would it be? (you can’t say blogger!)

Can I say writer? Blogging is great but I’d love to be an author of non-fiction books, most likely memoir. I also have a dream of someday offering workshops on writing to heal, both in-person and online.

What is your favorite animal and why?

Wolf. Independent, fierce, solitary but also strongly devoted to her pack. And they’re so beautiful. Wolves are my spirit animal.

Who inspired you to create your blog?

I’ve been inspired by so many women, and women writers in particular, but the ones who first come to mind are Glennon Doyle Melton of Momastery and Addie Zierman of How to Talk Evangelical. I really appreciate how vulnerable they are in their writing and how bold they are about declaring the truth of their stories in the hopes they will reach others who may have experienced similar stories and help them feel less alone.

What’s one thing your reader might not know about you?

I know *some* of my readers know this because they are my friends and family (hi, guys!) but my husband and I just recently learned we are moving to Hawaii in July!

What’s the last thing you read?

The last book I read in its entirety is Addie Zierman’s Night Driving: A Story of Faith in the Dark. On my kindle now is Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up (before we move, we need to purge BIG TIME!)

If you could live anywhere else where would it be?

If you had asked me this two weeks ago I would have said HAWAII! So I am getting my wish. But I also really, really love Seattle. I miss the market and the Olympics rising over the Sound. Living in Tacoma has been wonderful, but a sunny day in Seattle has a magic that I’ll never truly get over.

What is your favorite scripture/quote?

This is, hands down, my favorite passage in scripture. I’m a big fan of David, of his reckless heart, his treacherous story, and most of all, the way he never stops believing in the grace of his heavenly father. There was a time in my mid-twenties I couldn’t bring myself to crack open the Bible, but I wrote this on a note card and looked at it every day.

You have searched me, Lord,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

Psalm 130:1-12

Name something you could eat every day.

Sushi. Specifically salmon nigiri. It’s hard being pregnant.

Music artist/band that could never do wrong in your eyes (your favorite).

I can’t give a short and simple answer to this question, so here’s a short list of those who make me pretty darn happy: The Dixie Chicks, Natalie Merchant, The Weepies, Stars, Simon & Garfunkle, Adele, Hillsong, Fun!, Our Lady Peace, Matchbox 20, Third Eye Blind, and basically any and all alternative 90’s music.


I hereby nominate:

Katie at Just Enough Brave

Cat at The Cathartic Blend

Sarah at Sarah Elizabeth Finch

Amanda at Down Ups Teacups

Shannon at We’ll Eat You Up, We Love You So

Jessica at Keeping Up with the Joneses

Here are my questions for the bloggers I nominated:

  1. Why did you start your blog?
  2. Do you have a writing routine? If so, describe it.
  3. Who inspires your writing?
  4. Do you picture any particular person or people as your audience as you write? What are they like?
  5. What is your idea of the perfect day?
  6. Are you an introvert or extrovert?
  7. Pick one: what is the hardest thing or the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to you?
  8. What is your go-to self-care routine?
  9. What is your favorite book?
  10. What’s the best vacation you’ve ever taken?
  11. What have you learned about yourself through creating and maintaining your blog?


Thanks again to Andrea for the nomination! And special thanks to Jessica at Keeping Up with the Joneses for nominating me at the same time I was nominating her (don’t worry, Jess – you don’t have to answer my questions, too)!

I hope you’ll take the time to read through the blogs of these amazing women – they continue to inspire me each day.




The Last Thing I Wanted to Do


It rattles softly at the window like the fingers of a child as I sit on the edge of the tub to tie my shoes. It comes down the glass in crooked paths to stir my heart absurdly as it always has, and dear God in Heaven, the sound of it on the roof, on the taut black silk of the umbrella, on the catalpa leaves, dimpling the glassy surface of the peepering pond. It is the rain, and it tastes of silver; it is the rain, and it smells of christening. The rain is falling on the morning of my first day, and everything is wet with it: wet earth, wet fur, the smell of the grass when it is wet, the smell of the wet pavements of the city and the sound of tires on the wet streets, the wet hair and face of a woman doing errands in the rain. Wherever my feet take me now, it will be to something wet, something new, that I have never seen before.

-Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace

It was a cold, rainy morning and going to church was the last thing I wanted to do.

It’s going to be so crowded . . . the message will be watered down . . . you’re just going to have to watch a bunch of baptisms of people you don’t even know. I mean . . . baptisms on Easter? How cliché can you get?

It was Easter Sunday, 2009, in Seattle. I had only been attending the church for a month, and I had already decided the Easter baptism service was going to be over-produced and emotionally manipulative. All I wanted to do was drink my coffee in my robe and watch a Friends marathon.

Yet I felt a prompting, and my feet led me up the hill to church.

My dragging feet (and curled hair and carefully applied make-up because, Easter) made me late, so I sat high up in the balcony. I floated through the service, halfway listening to the message, halfway worshiping in my heart.

But then a soft-spoken guy in a black t-shirt walked up to the microphone. He shared he had grown up Catholic and was baptized as an infant. That he had begun to think very differently about faith when he was in high school. And how, as an adult, his faith had become just that—his faith. It was a personal thing that he didn’t talk about with anyone. He thought it was enough to have this conversation with God on his own. But without the support of a community, he found himself making decisions that were leading him away from God and that ultimately caused him great sadness.

My heart began to pound. I could hardly breathe. He was giving voice to a piece of my own story.

His face radiated with beauty and ease as he spoke about the promise God had given him through Jesus—that it was through Jesus’ strength and sacrifice, through his goodness and love—that he was redeemed and made new each and every day. With a huge smile, he walked to the baptismal pool and made a public commitment of faith.

After the baptisms, our pastor announced we’d be entering into a time of prayer and worship. I bowed my head, feeling heavy and sad as a stream of dark memories came flooding through my mind. I brushed a few tears from my cheek.

Yet cutting through the barrage of my iniquities and my litany of confessions was a surreal sense of peace.

I began to feel like maybe it was time to actually let go.

The pastor was still talking. “We’re going to do something different today. We’re going to keep the baptisms going. If any of you feel the Spirit moving in your heart, you are welcome to come up here.” My head jerked up.


“As you are praying, remember that you are dealing with an audience of One. It’s not about where you are.”

You are wearing your Easter dress, Erin, don’t be silly.

“It’s not about what you’re wearing — in fact, we have towels and sweatpants for you here backstage.”

Of course they have sweatpants for you. They’re hawking mass-produced Christianity, here, Erin. What a production.

“It’s not about the production, or the people, or the day. It’s about you and Jesus.”

I looked down at my dress, spotted with tears.

The feet I stood on felt like lead. My body trembled as I made my way down the stairs, through the hallway, down the aisle, and to the front of the stage. The man in front of me turned and offered a smile. “Nervous?”


Somehow I made my way up the steps and into the pool. And when the pastor turned to me and asked if I was ready to fully put my trust in Jesus, my answer came immediately and with power: YES.

When I resurfaced from the water, I couldn’t stop smiling. Joy radiated through my body.

I was wet, bedraggled, with mascara running down my face.

I had never felt more beautiful.

Originally appeared on All In


Faith in the Dark


Faith in the Dark“One last drink?” His gray eyes twinkled in the low light.  We were standing on a tree-lined path, shadows from the street lamp cast about us. I should have known to turn back—never trust a stranger friend; no one knows how it will end—but the summer air was warm and he was witty and kind. I felt safe walking beside him into the darkness.

His living room walls were lined with well-worn books. The built-in bookshelves were curved and painted white to match the rest of the apartment; I was comforted by their embrace. He gestured for me to take a seat on the leather couch, and as he left the room, I smiled. On the coffee table sat a thick, abridged copy of the OED.

He returned with two open bottles of beer and sat next to me, not too close. We chatted easily, comparing notes on favorite writers. He grabbed a book from one of the sturdy shelves and handed it to me.

“It’s a coming of age story.” I held the book in my hands, smoothing the faded cover. “Take it,” he grinned. “Borrow from my library.”

When he sat again, his long legs were just inches from mine. “Do you not like that kind of beer? You haven’t touched it.”

I glanced down at the bottle. “Just taking a breather.”

“I wish you had told me,” he said lightly. “I wouldn’t have opened it if I had known.”

I put the cool glass to my lips and took a few gulps. Warm. Dark.

There was a shift in his energy as he stood suddenly, moving past the lamp to the right of the couch, receding into the shadows beyond the bookshelves. I looked after him, and in the darkness, could see the faint outline of a bed.

It was dark when he raped me.


It’s strange and somewhat beautiful how our brains protect us from having to deal with trauma before we’re ready. I didn’t realize I was a rape survivor until two years ago, six years after I followed him down that tree-lined path, so romantic in the dim light of the street lamps. Until then I had categorized the event in my mind as something I had brought upon myself, a mistake, a terrible night that I should have been able to prevent. I should have been able to read the signs that something was about to go horribly wrong.

I had messed up.

So I asked for God’s forgiveness. Over and over and over again. It wasn’t the first time I had made a mistake with a man—I should have known better. I felt ashamed and broken.

I asked God to help me forgive this man who had so easily fooled me into believing he was someone special, a kindred soul.

I cried and I begged and I pleaded and received no relief, no restoration. So many tear-stained journal pages, so many prayers groaned out from the depths of my wasted heart, and nothing. No answer.

Fearful. Anxious. Uncertain. The faith that had held me through so many other difficult times suddenly seemed so thin.

And then one day, a few months after my counselor first said the word “rape,” a whisper came from somewhere deep inside me: maybe you need to forgive God.

A startling thought, but maybe it was true. Maybe this sick anxiety I felt about the world and my place in it had less to do with my own missteps and more to do with the fact that I felt unprotected and afraid.

Because truly: where was God that night?


Up until the night I was raped, I had felt God’s unwavering protection on my life. I felt it deep in my bones. It didn’t matter how low I found myself, I was convinced of his presence and his providence. The right worship song, the right Bible verse, the right amount of sunlight sparkling on the water, and I’d feel goosebumps prickling my skin, the cool rush of confidence that He is near.

When my father’s job moved us overseas before my freshman year of high school—and I was convinced my life was over—God was near.

When high school romance led to betrayal and binders full of bad poetry, God was near.

When I started college an ocean away from my family and could not remember who I was or wanted to be, God was near.

When the plane crashed into the twin towers and everything I thought I knew about my home country and my faith was thrown into question, God was near.

When I watched our family’s home go up in flames, God was near.

And on other nights, with other men, after drinks and too much flirtation, God was near.

In it, and afterwards, I would praise him and thank him for his unwavering protection.

I felt so blessed.

I never felt alone.


Once, as she led me through a guided prayer intended to offer healing, someone I love very dearly asked if I could go back to that dark room that night and imagine God there with me.

Where was God that night? 

As the tears streamed down my cheeks, I tried. But the image of Jesus, sitting on a chair in the corner of the room as the unthinkable occurred was too tragic. The only image I could conjure was a false Jesus: blonde, blue-eyed, sitting with a calm smile and folded hands.

It wasn’t right. That’s not the Jesus I had come to know.

I knew what I was supposed to say – he was there with me, he didn’t abandon me, he was there the whole time – but I couldn’t.

I just wept.


My son, an adventurous 18 month old, has been fighting for his independence since the day we met. Active, curious, he wanted to crawl before he could sit up. When he first started practicing his pull-ups on the living room coffee table the summer before he turned one, he fell often and with great frustration.

I’m not quite sure what possessed me to reprimand the floor that hit his diapered bum as he came toppling down that first time and looked to me with sad, anxious eyes. I guess I wanted him to understand I recognized his pain but also to make light of it somehow.

So instead of saying, “Oh, sweetie, good try. It’s okay. Get up. Try again,” I widened my eyes, shook my finger at the hardwood floor beneath him and said, “No, no, no, floor! Don’t you hurt my Jakey!”

He looked at me, confused at first. And then through teary eyes, he offered a smile.

From that day on, it became an inside joke between us. “No, no, no, table!” “No, no, no, block!” “No, no, no, Elmo!”

What I didn’t realize then was how seriously he was taking all of this. Now, whenever my exuberant little boy stubs a toe or trips or bumps an elbow, he is looking for something or someone to blame. “No, no, no!” he declares and looks to me to join him in the refrain.

I guess I realized in that moment, as I watched him topple over, I wouldn’t always be able to catch him, no matter how close I might be. But I wanted him to know I felt the pain right along with him – that I didn’t think it was okay that he was hurting.

There have been times I have watched him from a distance as he runs so fast and far from me, caught up in the delight of the air and the sun and the freedom of being alive, and I know it is only moments before he stumbles and scrapes the palms of his hands. I know it, yet I can’t stop it. When I hear his wailing and I see his tears, my heart breaks and it is almost more than I can bear.

But the worst moment is when I reach him and he looks at me with fear and frustration and anger and it’s almost as if I can see the accusation in his tender brown eyes.

Why weren’t you there? Why didn’t you stop this from happening?

All I can do is open my arms to him, comfort him, and tend to his wounds.

And I can pray that as he grows in understanding, he’ll know the depths of my love for him, even when I’m nowhere in sight.


I can’t give a straight answer about where God was the night I followed my heart, full speed, down that concrete path in the lamplight. I can’t tell you his thoughts as my innocent trust in his provision was taken from me, my heart bruised, body battered.

I can’t tell you where God’s will ended and my will began. I can’t tell you if that matters.

But I can choose to believe his heart was breaking as he watched his daughter experience pain.

I can choose to believe he was near.

And I still choose to believe that his arms are open, ready to tend to my wounds and offer me the comfort of his love, both in the light of day and the darkness of night.

Even when I can’t feel it.


I just read Addie Zierman’s new memoir, Night Driving: A Story of Faith in the Dark, in less than 48 hours. Her honesty, vulnerability, and gorgeous writing have inspired me once again. In celebration of her book release, this post will be linked to her #NightDriving synchroblog. Visit her website for more info







I Can’t Live on Bread Alone

open-book-981405_960_720This week I reworked an old post from October 2013, which was shared on All In this morning. May it bring you hope, as it did for me, as I recalled the events of that fall.

I am a bibliophile. I could spend all day in a bookstore, leafing through pages, inhaling that sweet aroma, running my fingers over their spines. My bedside table gathers more words than I can read in a month (or even a year), and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I have a confession: as much as I love books, and as much as I love Jesus, I don’t always love picking up my Bible.

There was a time this hesitation made sense because I felt intimidated by both its prose and poetry; I worried I wouldn’t understand what Jesus said should be so clear. But that’s no longer the case. Last week, as I was studying and reflecting on the power of scripture, I was reminded of when God surprised me by opening my eyes just two and a half years ago.


Our books are still in boxes.

It is October. We moved into our house in July.

Usually, when I set up a new living space, my books are the first to be unpacked. I like to touch each one, pause; if there’s time, I open a few of the pages and read a few lines. Meditate on words once read, underlined, starred, recalling back to a younger self who read with passion and curiosity.

I married a man with as many, if not more, books as I have in my possession. The fact that some are duplicates is a private confirmation to me of our perfect synchronization. Thus we are the Curletts of Many Books and at the moment these treasures are still in boxes, sitting in the corner of our basement.

One book in one of those boxes is my Ryrie Study Bible, which I’ve had since sophomore year of college, when I decided my faith needed to be my own. Lately I’ve been craving the word, and Googling each verse in question hasn’t been cutting it. My husband’s Bible is worn; crammed with pencils, notes, and memorabilia; it is held together tightly by a rubber band. I love his Bible, but at a distance.

Rather than open every one of the twenty boxes in our basement to find my collegiate companion, I instead went to Amazon and purchased a thin line ESV Bible. I imagined myself tucking it into a purse or a suitcase, something toteable. Perfect. When I read the description I realized that there would be no notes, no cross-references, no footnote exegesis. I worried a bit that I wouldn’t be able to follow these words without the guidance of scholars. (I know, I know. Martin Luther and all that. But you know, sometimes I need a little help.)

But . . .ever since that Bible made it to my doorstep? My hungry soul has been eating it up. Chapter by chapter. Number by number. Epistle by epistle. It feels comfortable, friendly. It makes sense to me. I am understanding its words in a way I never have before. There is clarity and an understanding that has never been present with me as I’ve read the Word of God.

Maybe this shouldn’t come as a surprise to me, but I have to be honest: I am surprised. This prayer thing? It works. Sure, in certain denominations and certain pulpits, pastors and ministers pray that the Holy Spirit will illuminate the Word of God. But how many times do we do that and experience . . . nothing? I would venture a guess that most of you reading this know what I’m talking about (or perhaps just as likely, you really have *no idea* what I’m talking about and the idea of asking the Spirit of God to help us do anything sounds a little weird and woo-woo. I don’t blame you. It’s bizarre, right? Nonsensical).

But here’s the thing: I asked him to help me, and he has been helping me. Honest truth.

How did this come to be? Well, a couple of weeks ago I had an ugly cry episode (definitely not the first!) where I professed from the very depths of my being that I believe in who he is and what he is capable of doing – namely, changing me. But this time I also specifically asked him to open up my eyes and ears and heart to the truth of his Word.

And guess what? He’s been doing it. He is true to his Word. It feels like a fog has been lifted. And it’s rocking my world.

I don’t know what to make of all of this, other than to laugh through my tears. Cathartic is the word that comes to mind. I feel compelled to laugh, to share, to write. I have a new confidence I’ve never, ever experienced before.

Could it be possible that the Lord has known, since before the creation of this world, that it would take me until October of my 32nd year to fully experience the truth of his promises? That it would take me this long to study the clues along the way?

I go down to the basement and open a box. It is strewn with gifts. Brennan Manning. Frederick Buechner. Madeline L’Engle. The words in their books affirm what God has been teaching me:

You’re forgiven. You’re called. You’re a creator.

And now: the questions remain, “What do I create?” and, “Am I worthy of the task to which I am called?”

Something is brewing. Something is being knit together. And my Father, who purchased my life with the sacrifice of his Son, clothes me in righteousness and undeserved reward.

He is with me.


In three short months, movers will arrive to once again pack our belongings—including our precious books—and send them to our new home, miles away. This time, as I gather clothes and toiletries and the supplies we’ll need in the in-between, I’ll make sure my Bible stays right where I want it: within arm’s reach. Because I know as I continue to pour my heart out onto the page, I will need his words of hope and truth and grace to fill me up time and time again.

Treasure Where the Home Fire Burns

Eleven years ago today my family watched a fire destroy our home. I wrote this piece a few years later and today I share it in honor of the lessons God began to teach me as I watched the flames wreck a house so full of memories. 

Mom and I are sitting in the den when the alarm sounds. We are tense, tired. It’s been quite a year for our family.

Stunned silence passes between us. Surely there is a mistake. But the crackling, the popping, the blackened sheets of wood and plaster that cascade past the window and into the pool can’t be denied.

My brother strides down the stairs, phone held to his ear. “Yes. Our house is on fire.”

He repeats our address and we calmly fall into line, one after the other. I grab the dog. I have forgotten to put on my shoes.

Once outside, Mom turns and runs. Back inside the house.

My brother and I stand on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac, waiting. I am barefoot on the concrete, which would be hot this time of year if it wasn’t for the strange windstorm sweeping across Texas. My toes are cold.

My eyes are fixed on the orange tongue that is lapping at our roof. I always thought fire was red, but it’s not – it’s taking on the color of whatever it touches, like a chameleon, or a dragon. Sulfur, smoke, and freshly mowed grass mingle in the air.

Mom reappears, my handbag clutched to her chest. Breathing heavily, she hands me my bag.

“Thank God, Mom.” I reach out, touch her shoulder.

“You needed your keys. Go move the car.”

My CR-V is a few yards from the house, but the fire is only on the roof. Surely the wind will die, the fire will stop. I shiver.

“The fire won’t reach the car, Mom,” I say. “Can’t we leave it?”

Mom blinks. “Give me the keys.” As she runs to the car I feel something like shame.

When she returns, the car safely moved to the end of the street, she hands me the keys.

As their weight hits my palm, I consider bolting to the Honda, my own coffee-scented, bumper-sticker-slapped haven. I could roll the windows down, blast country radio, high-tail it out of there in five-minutes flat.

Instead, I follow Mom to the house next door. The fire truck pulls up about the same time I realize that after five years of sharing a curb, this is the first time I have officially met these neighbors. It feels absurd to knock on their door and ask for shelter, but no more absurd than the windstorm and the flames.

I use their phone to call my father.

“Dad? You need to come home.”

When I hang up I return to the couch where my mom and brother hover with hollow eyes. Our neighbor has gone to the kitchen to fetch some iced tea. Mom coughs and covers her mouth. She has been in bed for the last week with the flu.

As she removes her hand from her face, her eyes rest on her left hand. “My rings,” she whispers.

Her fingers are naked. She tells me that when she crawled into bed last week she removed all of her jewelry, including her diamond-studded wedding ring and sapphire-rimmed anniversary ring, neither of which I have ever seen her without.

She coughs again – wait, no. She is sobbing. “My rings!”

I reach out, touch her, see the touch of gray under her warm chocolate eyes. I think of the naïve, youthful face beaming from sepia-tone photos, the memories of a girl from the Mojave Desert, dressed in lace as she stood beside my side-burned father.

“Oh, Mom,” I gasp. “Your wedding photos.”

She looks up. “All of our photos.”

I need to escape. Out on my neighbors’ lawn the wind blows ash and heat upon my face. The flame has continued to grow, despite the firefighters’ efforts. The spray from the fire hoses, like the sword of a heroic yet all-too-human prince, seems no match for the dragon, who is devouring our treasures.

Photographic memories and memories of photos intertwine in my mind. Do I remember the kindness in my great grandpa’s eyes, his hands encircling my waist as I perched upon the back of that great dappled horse? Or just the faded photo of his sun-wrinkled, winking smile, cowboy hat and dirty overalls? Without the photos, will I forget?

I think, well, at least I have my journals – oh no. My throat constricts as I imagine the upstairs closet, my trove of childhood treasures, now consumed. My scrapbooks of photos, carefully organized and pasted with stickers and bits of ribbon; my dog-eared, underlined, well-loved books; these riches are all secondary to the boxes of journals, the diaries and notebooks and steno pads that hold in their bindings the story of my life.

Prickling heat rises up my back to my neck and my face as the question why resounds around and within me. Before me, the flame that rises is quiet and slow-moving. I stare into the core of it, pensive and still. The flame seems to change as my vision blurs and flickers, my eyes unblinking, my feet firmly planted in the soil.

It is then I see a vision of a mighty hand, holding the flame, controlling the flame, and beckoning my soul to quiet itself in its presence. The fire, in this moment, seems central not only to my life story, but to the universe.

Love. There is love. A whisper through my mind. Stuff. It’s just stuff. My shoulders, as high as my earlobes, begin to slowly descend, neck relaxing, knots loosening. At what point did the object become the treasure? Could this great flame be like the forest fire that scours the remains of life along its decaying floor? Like the soil in such forests, replenished with nutrients after a necessary evil, could our hearts and our souls be renewed?

I turn from the flame. Dad should be here soon. My family is safe. I should go to them.


A few days later, the phone rings at my apartment. It’s Mom.

“You are never going to believe this.”

She tells me that when the first firefighter emerged from the damp, sooty ruins, he approached her with outstretched hands. “We tried to grab anything that seemed might be important,” he said.

“Erin,” Mom barely whispers, “Do you know what he saw, and saved from the wreckage? My wedding rings. The wedding album. And a box of your journals.”

Goosebumps prickle my arms. Having let go, having given in, we are rewarded by the very treasures which we most feared to lose. I wonder: is this what a miracle looks like? Could this be grace? The air seems charged with magic.

I am still in awe a few days later when Dad takes me back to the site to walk through the house. For closure, he says.

After further investigation, my father and the firefighters have discovered more buried treasure: salvaged photo albums, letters, china. My legs are shaking as I climb the crumbling stairs. How was this foundation not destroyed? Up in my room, my guitar lies blackened in the corner, grinning toothlessly. Rubble blocks the path to my closet of childhood treasures, and the wind whistles through the cracks in the brick walls, fingering remnants of paper and ribbon and twine. Yet there is something more. Dad comes up behind me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Dad, do you see?”

Shards of glass by the thousands, a myriad of colors, dust the fallen ceiling fan, the throw pillows, the floor. Christmas ornaments, shattered, have fallen through the attic and fill the space with an ethereal light. Rainbows dance on the soot-charred walls, pinpricks of hope in a desolate space. It is magic. It is grace.

Among the wreckage and the ruins of my family’s memories and mistakes, I feel like I am standing on sacred ground.