This translation is not completely accurate as it was automatically generated by a computer.
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A UMNS Commentary
By Heather Hahn*
7:00 A.M. EST Oct. 19, 2010 | ANTIOCH, Tenn. (UMNS)
The bone-rattling blare of the alarm jolted me out of bed, if not fully into consciousness.
Only years of training from public-school fire drills — and
irritation at having my sleep disturbed — sent me shuffling in bare
feet and pajamas toward the door of my apartment. Probably a false
alarm, I muttered to myself as I jostled the doorknob.
I was wrong.
Above me, a tower of flame was ripping through the second-floor wall
and peeling off chunks of the ceiling. In its haunting light, I could
see black smoke creeping toward the stairwell. A heavy, acrid smell
like a thousand cigarettes filled the air.
I was terrified. A barrage of curses filled my mind. I did not think of God.
Tests of faith
This was not the first time I found myself so close to an
out-of-control blaze. One cold, December night when I was 11, a spark
from a malfunctioning space heater ignited a fire that gutted my
family's house.
That night, my mom shook my younger sister and me awake, made us
grab our slippers and pushed us toward the front door to safety. We
called frantically for our beloved cat, Freya, but we were unable to
rescue her. We learned later she had died of smoke inhalation.
My family made it through that difficult time. We were healthy and
had the resources to rebuild our house and replace what we needed. We
also eventually got two new cats, who enjoyed long, happy lives.
Still, I mourned Freya. And for about a year after that fire, it
seemed just about everything we had smelled of smoke — a constant
reminder of what was lost. I remember being very angry with God for a
while. How could God let this happen?
More than 20 years later, I did not have time to think about that previous trauma with another fire tearing through my home.
My next-door neighbor, Ben, was standing in his doorway. “Don’t try
to get anything,” he shouted over the crackling wood. “Run.”
It was perhaps the best advice I ever received. At that moment, a
loud pop pierced the night as a fiery piece of ceiling crashed onto the
floor above us. Ben and I both ran into the parking lot where the
other building residents were gathering. I didn’t even shut my
apartment door.
We were all talking at once. Has someone called 911? Yes. Is everybody safe?
I scanned the anxious faces around me searching desperately for the
older couple that lived upstairs from me. I didn't know their names,
but they always had a smile for me whenever I passed by. Moments after I
arrived, the two joined the crowd in the parking lot. I was as
relieved as if my own parents had escaped. Everyone seemed to be
accounted for.
All we could do was wait and watch in horror as the flames spread.
Only then did I realize how empty-handed I was — no wallet, no phone,
no slippers. All I had were the red shorts and gray T-shirt I had worn
to bed.
From the far side of the parking lot, we could feel the fire's heat
wash over us. We heard the horrible crunching and snapping as walls
caved in and the roof collapsed. Like a ravenous monster, the blaze
clawed through the entire top floor, devouring everything in its
path. By the time two fire trucks arrived, fire was chomping the
branches of the tree in front of my apartment and nibbling at the roof
of the building next door.
Some of my neighbors quietly wept. I looked on in shock. It wasn't
hard to see why so many people have associated hell with flames.
This time, I wasn't blaming God for the destruction we were
witnessing. God has nothing to do with this fire, I thought. My prayer
that night wasn't one of anger but a supplication for guidance.
Divine comfort
I was a recent arrival to the Nashville area and hundreds of miles away from friends and family, including my husband.
I soon realized I wasn't alone. God was present that night.
God was there with the firefighters as they stopped the fire from
spreading to other buildings and in about an hour, brought the fire
under control.
God was there in the faces of neighbors from the surrounding buildings, eager to offer whatever comfort they could.
One man brought out a bag of clothes to give away to those of us
from the burning building. He gave me a giant plaid shirt to put over
my T-shirt and a pair of sandals. They were way too big but a vast
improvement over bare feet, and much of the next day, they were my only
shoes. I never did get his name.
Another woman named Heather welcomed me, a complete stranger, to
spend the night with her and her daughter in their apartment. She also
lent me clothes to wear the next day, and just as importantly, her cell
phone.
I was surrounded by people who cared, and that was the proof of divine love I needed.
It took about a week and a half for the shock of the fire to wear off.
But since that time, I also have felt an almost ineffable joy to be
alive. I rejoice that all 24 people in the 14 affected units got
out safely, and I am incredibly grateful for all the people I met since
that night who have offered their help.
Red Cross volunteers were at the apartment the next day to help us
with immediate needs like food, clothes and medicine. The apartment
staff helped us all relocate to new homes either in the same complex or
another nearby property. Local churches donated furniture, and stores
gave away gift certificates.
My co-workers at United Methodist Communications also took up a
generous collection to help me. And I am grateful to have renters'
insurance and the knowledge that things can be replaced.
Two weeks later, the cause of the fire is still unknown. And that's
not the only unsolved mystery I ponder in the wee hours of the morning.
I don't know why I have managed to survive two devastating fires
when so many good people have died in fires and other natural disasters
just this year.
I have far less insight than the generations of theologians who have
wrestled with the problem of theodicy – how to reconcile a loving,
all-powerful God with the existence of evil.
But the message of the Cross, to me, is that God is with us in our
suffering. And often God's hands in the world are the neighbors we
meet. The apartment fire brought together a diverse group of people of
varied ages, races, economic backgrounds and religious beliefs. But
since the fire, we have become bound together not just by trauma but
also by a renewed sense of neighborliness.
Even when things are at their scariest, we can feel God's presence in the kindness of those around us.
*Hahn is a multimedia news reporter for United Methodist News Service.
News media contact: Heather Hahn, Nashville, Tenn., (615) 742-5470 or newsdesk@umcom.org.
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