On Empathy

It has been a very out-of-the-ordinary-week, here in Santa Barbara.

We, as a community are in the throes of another tragic and devastating wildfire. The Jesusita fire is dominating our foothills and flirting dangerously close to our downtown and highly populated areas. There is something incredibly unnerving about seeing huge clouds of dark smoke hanging over your city, and it get's worse when you can follow those smoke trails to big, huge, bright red, dancing flames. Last night, the old Johnny Cash song played in my mind with new significance as I actually saw a burning ring of fire. The familiar foothills of the beautiful city I call home, hills where friends, co-workers, neighbors live looked more like Mordor or the inside of a volcano, or hell, than I could've imagined possible.

Tuesday afternoon, as word spread that a fire had broken out in San Roque, my heart sank immediately; as I think did the hearts of this whole community, still grieving and beginning to heal from this winter's Tea fire. It was like we all just sighed deeply, in unison: "Again?! We just did this..." Some of us had to make lame attempts to go about our day as usual, amidst power outages, breaking news updates, evacuations, road closures, and snowstorms of ash. Emergency vehicle after emergency vehicle, reverse 911 call after reverse 911 call, and growing numbers of evacuees, homes lost, and acres burned made life-as-usual difficult to say the least.

My friends and I became lost in the hours of news coverage, but more than that, I'd say we became totally consumed with empathy. It didn't feel right to just go have a light-hearted margarita at Los Arroyos when people were fleeing from their homes and brave men and women were battling the flames to keep people and structures safe. I felt something akin to guilty, knowing that some people were on the verge of losing everything they owned for the second time in six months while there was again no real threat posed to me personally by the fires.

I'm not particularly fond of any type of natural disaster, but this year I have been faced with the absolute awfulness of wildfire. Growing up in Illinois, the only disaster we prepared for was a tornado. The siren would sound at Elm Park, a warning would flash on the bottom of the tv screen, and we'd know what might be coming. Someone would report a sighting of a funnel cloud, usually out in Kane or DuPage county, and we'd head to the basement, or if at school, to the hallways and wait it out. I was terrified of tornadoes back then (and I'm sure I still would be if I lived there); but at the moment, as far as disasters go, they're not sounding half bad. Today, the unpredictability and grueling madness of a California wildfire is almost too much for me, a mere looky-loo who will walk away relatively unscathed.

I'm humbled and nothing short of amazed at the bravery, the stamina, the selflessness of the thousands of fire fighters battling the blaze. I'm heartbroken for the families who have lost everything, and anxious with those who are waiting, evacuated, to hear news of their own precious homes. So, figuratively there has been a dark shadow cast over Santa Barbara this week- much like the literal cloud of dense black smoke blanketing our little corner of the world. We still know, from experience, that God is good, people are generous, and a little gratefulness goes a long way. I know that eventually-and soon, I hope-the flames will all be put out. The firefighters will return to where they came from, and the long and painstaking process of rebuilding will begin. Again.

But this week, tonight, I feel helpless and restless. I believe more than anything in the power of prayer, and in God's loving kindness and sovereignty. Tonight though, I'm afraid to say that praying doesn't quite feel like enough. Of course, it has to be; so I continue to pray. But quietly, silently, my heart is breaking as I pridefully, sheepishly wish that I could do more.