Southern California has had some crazy weather as of late. Intense gusts of wind and chilly days (read: in the 50s) followed by record-high temperatures. At work, the palm trees outside my window have been tossed about by the wind – leaving me in awe of how they can bend and flex without breaking.

But all this wind brings back memories of summer and fire season. That season of bloody noses and perpetually dry skin. Of brush fires and burning hills. Supposedly this is California’s “new normal,” and we’ve even introduced new phrases into our lexicon: “in the fire zone,” “forced blackouts.”

I’m incredibly thankful that James and I have never been in real danger, but this year we had our first real taste of fire season when the hill behind our house went up in flames. We’ve always said we’ll be okay if the hill catches fire because there are more important things to save (read: Warner Bros. and Universal Studios) before the fire would ever reach us. But that didn’t make the situation any less alarming.

Playing with Fire

That experience brought a whole new meaning to something bad feeling “too close to home.” It started with a text from our building manager: “No panic but brush fire nearby. Maybe prepare important papers just in case.”

Important papers? 

I had wondered about the helicopter I’d seen pass by earlier, but couldn’t see much from my vantage point on the couch. It was a Saturday, and I was enjoying a leisurely afternoon with a good book.

As a million questions rushed into my head, I rushed to the back door and peered through the glass at the hill on fire. 

Smoke was already billowing high in the sky and little fires were sprouting up all across the hill. To a giant, it would have looked like an array of candles had been planted at random and then lit on fire. A line of firefighters marched up the hill like ants up a mound of dirt – their orange suits almost matching the glow of the fire.

I felt immediate gratitude for these men and women who selflessly put themselves in harm’s way to protect people like me – people they didn’t even know and would probably never meet. 

Overhead, helicopters hovered and dropped huge buckets of water on the flames. But just as one was snuffed out, another would pop up elsewhere on the hill. 

“I’m assuming we’ll be notified if we need to evacuate?” I texted back. Our building manager assured me she would be in touch. 

I texted James, who was at a conference while all this was developing, and he immediately left the panel midway through and started making his way home. Barham was backing up and Forest Lawn was completely closed, so he went the long way around from the 101 to the 134. Side note: writing that sure makes me feel like a Southern Californian now. 

As James came up Olive, he saw the news trucks and paparazzi everywhere, capturing the action. Curious people stood on street corners, taking photos and videos of the unfolding drama – probably for their Instagram stories or Twitter feeds. Who knows. 

While I gathered our papers together – again, what are all the important papers? and what else do I need to grab? – and got myself ready in case we needed to evacuate, James arrived and immediately took the elevator to the roof where he watched the fire’s progress. 

As I thought about what to pack, I realized we have way too much stuff. It almost felt like a burden. 

Overwhelmed and unsure, I prayed for protection and peace – for us and for the firefighters working so hard to protect us. 

Abundance v. Scarcity

As the sun began to set, army planes joined the helicopters overhead, dropping smoking trails of fire retardant – doing their best to help quell the fire before it got too dark. Hopefully giving us a fighting chance to make it through the night without fear of the fires coming back. 

Even though I knew we were likely out of danger, my heart felt heavy and exhausted after hours of essentially being trapped inside watching the hills burn. 

I felt sad for our beautiful state that was continuing to burn. I felt small and helpless – but also hopeful that we would be spared and grateful for the hardworking firefighters.

I could hardly drag myself to dinner that night, my energy was so depleted. But getting out of the house and enjoying a meal at one of our favorite restaurants ultimately proved healing for my soul. We enjoyed the fruits of the soil – and many other hands’ hard work. Marinated beets with sprouted lentils and avocado mousse, roasted kabocha squash with whipped ricotta and chile mint vinaigrette, and umbricelli pomodoro – handmade noodles lightly coated in a spicy tomato sauce. 

As we ate, we talked about fire preparedness and also what it means to have enough. Realizing that the things we “own” could have been swept away in the course of an afternoon. 

My sadness at the thought of losing some of my favorite things helped me realize how attached I am to them. Too attached. And how I still need to grow in generosity toward others and attachment to God, not things. And certainly not attachment to things being perfectly put together – especially not myself.

As we went to bed that night, fires were still smoldering – looking like a city on a hill, lit up in the night sky. But as we woke the next day, smoke had settled into the hills like fog on a cool morning. Helicopters were still passing overhead but with much less frequency. Ash and fire retardant we’re sprinkled across the hill like snow. 

I still felt a bit off after the drama of the day before, and as I stepped outside to head to church that morning, the smell of smoke hit me like a wall – sending me coughing and sputtering almost immediately. 

At the same time, I was grateful. So grateful that the worst seemed to be over. Or at least, I hoped it was. 

As our pastor preached on generosity that morning, I realized that I’ve been trying to keep things safe and tidy and fill my life with beautiful things – without realizing I already have enough. Instead of turning my gaze inward and gathering my life together, I need to be looking outside more – looking at others. 

The truth is, I’ve been living out of fear, not joy. And when joy and gratitude replace that fear, I’m always more generous with others because ultimately I’m leaving out of a sense of abundance instead of scarcity. 

While fire season has passed and that Sunday sermon was months ago, I’m still asking for the Lord’s help to embrace abundance and humility in equal measure. To not fulfill every desire I have, and to learn to live as one poor in spirit and overflowing in grace. To loosen the grip of greed in my heart and to help me to live generously instead.