When the Fire Is Out

      I grew up in rural Pennsylvania.  Farms were abundant.  Cows way outnumbered people.  Growing things was a part of our culture, it was a core identity of my people.  FFA was more popular then football and the boys would drive their tractors to school a few days a year.  I vividly remember when one of our local farms caught fire.  It was the middle of summer and a bale of hay ignited.  The entire barn was loss.  Tragically so were a few of the animals that were in the barn.  I could see the fire from outside my front door.  The orange flames leapt into the air.  Smoke filled the air.  Every local fire department ascended onto our small town to try to save the farm.  People lined up to watch the fire.  Some of them stayed in their cars, others got out.  Back then the only way to take pictures was with your polaroid camera or it you had a disposable camera.  My grandmother pulled out her old reliable VHS recorder in order to remember the scene.  People pulled into our drive way and said "that's such a shame."  After hours the fire was out and everyone went home.  Pictures were on the front page of the local paper and every man sat in the front of the local gas station lamenting the loss. It was the only news that people talked about for days....but then it wasn't new anymore.  People went about with their lives.  The farmer rebuilt his barn.  Slowly but surely the old structure went up, but no one stopped to take pictures of the rebuild.  There were no crowds, no newspaper journalists interviewing, no one talking about the rebuild.  People seemed to love the fire, but not the rebuild.  Tragedy, sorrow, and loss gather people like flies to honey.  The rebuild has the opposite reaction.

      Grieving people quietly feel the same way.  They might not voice it, but if they were honest they would tell you the same thing.  I remember when Tiff was diagnosed with cancer, people rallied.  They prayed.  They held church services that filled sanctuaries. They brought meals. They sent cards. They checked in. Our story suddenly became visible. There was something urgent to see, a house on fire.  And when a house is burning, people stop.  Cars pull over. Neighbors gather on the sidewalk. Cameras come out. Everyone watches the flames.  But when the fire trucks leave and the smoke clears, the crowd disappears.

      What remains is the rebuilding.  The charred beams don't make the evening news. The months of hauling debris, fighting insurance companies, making impossible decisions, and slowly putting one board back in place don't attract spectators. Reconstruction is long, repetitive, and painfully ordinary.

      Grief often feels the same way.  The diagnosis draws attention.  The crowd of people gave a proverbial 'ugh' sound when we announced that Tiff had stage four cancer.  The viewing had over 1200 visitors, the funeral filled the church with over 600 people.  Over 15,000 people viewed her obituary online.  People cried and wept with us.  Countless people promised to stay no matter what.  Shortly after I found the fire stopped burning, and people went about their daily life....and no one was watching the rebuild.  I asked quietly, "what about the lonely Tuesday afternoon when you're trying to figure out how to laugh again without feeling guilty? What about the first date after losing your spouse? The first family vacation. The first holiday that feels more hopeful than heartbreaking."

      These moments are just as significant.  In many ways, they're harder.  Because this is where grief asks you to do something terrifying.  Not simply survive.  But rebuild.  To press forward.  I've discovered something that may be difficult to hear: people are often captivated by brokenness, but far fewer are interested in restoration.  That might sound harsh, but I don't mean it that way.  This isn't an indictment nor it is an accusation that someone is cruel or mean.  I think the reason why is because they don't know what rebuilding looks like. There's no dramatic crisis to respond to. No casserole to deliver. No obvious way to help. Life simply moves on....and often leaves the grieving person lagging behind.

      For the grieving person, however, life doesn't simply move on.  It must be rebuilt.  Brick by brick.  Prayer by prayer.  Decision by decision.  Can I be honest with you for a moment?  Can I be vulnerable with you?  Can I represent the voice of the grieving people that I work with and represent?  There are days when the rebuilding feels invisible to others.  When people don't comment that they are happy for you, they are proud of you.  The grief stricken person wonders if anyone notices.  They didn't question your care during the crisis, but now the silence makes them wonder the dept of other people's care.  They wonder if anyone understands the courage it took just to smile today, to make plans for next month, or to believe that God still has good things ahead.

     If that's you I want you to hear this, God notices.  Throughout Scripture, He isn't only the God who rescues people from the fire. He is the God who rebuilds ruined cities, restores broken hearts, and makes beauty from ashes. He delights not merely in survival but in restoration.  Do me a favor and read that again.  And now again.  Perhaps that's why rebuilding can feel so lonely.  The applause has faded.  The comments on social media have evaporated.  The visitors have gone home.  The spotlight has moved on.  But God remains at the construction site. Every nail driven. Every wall raised. Every tear shed over what once was and what might yet become is seen by Him.

      If your grief has become quiet enough that people assume you're "doing fine," don't mistake their silence for God's absence.  He has never left the rebuild.  And one day, when the house stands again, it won't erase the fire.  But it will testify to the faithfulness of the One who never walked away while everyone else went home.  If you are reading this and aren't in the arena of grief, let me encourage you to keep checking in on your grieving friend.  Tell them that you are proud of them, that you stand with them, write them a random card for no reason, and most of all let them know that their life matters just as much in the rebuild as the loss.  If you haven't loved them in the rebuild as much as you loved them in the fire, then you might need to check up on them.