Journalists are running out of words to describe the cataclysmic wildfires that have devastated Los Angeles and surrounding communities.
Apocalyptic. Unimaginable. Catastrophic. Heartbreaking. Life-altering.
Firefighters have been battling fierce Santa Ana winds and hydrants devoid of water. At least 16 Angelenos are known to have died, and damages are expected to exceed $20 billion – numbers almost certain to rise in the days ahead.
The disaster has been a great equalizer. When you’re running for your life or standing in front of a smoldering heap that used to be your house, it doesn’t matter if you’re a rich celebrity or a working class 9-to-5’er.
Whole neighborhoods are gone, including churches, schools, libraries, museums, and pizza joints.
Homeowners are in shock, mourning the loss of all their kids’ drawings, love letters, favorite pieces of furniture, cultivated gardens, and keepsakes. A CNN reporter talked to a man sifting through the ashes of his home, searching for anything sentimental he could retrieve for his wife. “Even a teacup,” he said, fighting back tears. “If only I could find a piece of one teacup.”
Years ago I was the guest of a church in a community in the foothills of California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. Wildfires had raged up and down the mountain slopes that fall in the midst of a lingering drought.
During the worship service, one of the Sunday School directors – a young mom – invited the children who were present to join her at the front of the sanctuary for the “kids’ sermon.”
She asked them a poignant question: “How many of you have had to evacuate your house in recent weeks?” About a quarter of the children raised their hands. Then she asked: “What are the things that your family has decided to put in their emergency go-bag?”
All my life that’s been nothing but a theoretical question – basically a conversation starter for small groups.
Your house is on fire. The people and the pets are safe. You can only save three things. What would they be? For the people who live in the tinder box dryness of southern California, however, that is not a theoretical question.
The Sunday School director then held up the three items she had rushed to her own car when it appeared an evacuation order was coming.
The first was a large framed photograph taken on her wedding day, in which she and her husband were standing together. The second was Cutie, their daughter’s deeply-loved green turtle stuffed animal. The third was her Bible, which was filled with handwritten notes in the margins, underlined verses, and creased pages – a personal record of her spiritual life.
Wouldn’t it be easy enough, however, just to take more pictures and buy a new stuffed animal? And aren’t more Bibles sold every year than any other book in the world?
But these weren’t mere things. These were irreplaceable treasures – cherished symbols of the three key relationships in her life: her husband, her child, and Christ.
The best things in life are not things. The best things in life are relationships.
We say we believe this. But often we live as if another two projects at work, or another two hundred dollars in the bank account, or another two hours watching TV will somehow make us happy. Inevitably we are disappointed.
Jesus said, “Take care! Protect yourself against the least bit of greed. Life is not defined by what you have, even when you have a lot” (Luke 12:15).
Only when an “evacuation order” is sounded – a defining moment big enough to force us to choose between what really matters and what only masquerades as important – does reality fully dawn on us.
In truth, every one of us is going to hear life’s most significant evacuation order one day. It may come tomorrow or years from now. It may come with ample warning or dramatic suddenness. But make no mistake: It will come.
God will call us to step into the next world, leaving everything behind.
Don’t wait until you “smell smoke.”
Hang on today to your dearest relationships.
And don’t let go.
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