Beauty From Ashes...

It is an arresting sight - the charred, icy rubble spread out around the skeleton of my former home. Everyone who walks or drives by has no choice but to stare, transfixed, at a building that used to house 16 families but is now condemned and will soon be scheduled for demolition. I park as close as possible but avoid my old carport spot, now littered with pine cones, needles, clumps of mud and other debris. I grab the disposable camera and hurriedly duck under the yellow tape, snapping pictures almost immediately. The light is fading, and I don't want to get kicked out before I finish.

Of course, I am most interested in seeing what I can of my old condo unit, and the same temptation to ignore the rules, risk my safety and climb the stairs grips me as it did earlier in the day . . .

[Earlier.] I am standing on a pile of burnt wood, broken glass, and God knows what else, just inside what's left of the doors to my section of building B. I am at the foot of the stairs I had climbed so often before. The walls are black in most places, and the handrail has gone from gray to rust. The stairs are charred and crumbling. It is cold and the wind is blowing flakes of ash down into my hair and onto my clothes, like a flurry of dirty snow.

I am standing in a place I took for granted as just being there, now grateful simply for my aunt's life. Except for the clothes I was wearing Monday and the items in my car, everything I used to call mine is gone. Up in smoke. This is funny in its morbidly humorous way, and I am also grateful for the ability to smile. My aunt and I have been given an uncomprehensible peace and a sense of humor almost immediately. We have lost track of how many different variations of, "I know you wanted to _____, but you didn't have to torch the place," we have told each other.

My aunt was standing behind me, talking to neighbors who are also waiting to see what's salvagable of their past, but she has gone back to the clubhouse where it's warm. I am waiting, grateful but anxious. Despite being told several times there is absolutely nothing left, I know that what I really want has survived. It had to. And while I appreciate these men risking their safety to look around on my behalf (they won't let me up), I know no one cares like I do. I am tempted to rush up the stairs and look for myself. So I am surprised by my surprise when the association president comes gingerly down the steps to hand me my first meager handful of what's left in my old desk. It is just a pack of colored pencils and cheap art supplies, but it is mine. More gratefulness, especially when another neighbor offers a black garbage bag to put my armful in.

We all laugh when he carries down a muffin pan which has braved the fire - probably because it was wasting away stored in a closet! It is our memento that not everything we had was useful to us, a reminder to us in the future that all the things we could own may not be worth owning.

A few more minutes, and another careful trip down the stairs. This time, he's got more of what I'm looking for - a photo album and a few loose photos. I keep repeating my thanks. He asks if there's anything more, as the bottom drawer of my desk is blocked by a bunch of debris and it will take a bit of work to access it. I say yes, knowing the contents of that drawer and praying it's made it through as well as the other things. And ten long minutes later, when he's holding my grandmother and great-grandmother's photo albums out to me, I can't help but get teary-eyed. I can't thank them enough, and I tell them so. The albums are sopping wet, and I hope they're not damaged beyond repair, but just holding them in my arms means so much.

So now, all that's left of the belongings in my home is in a garbage bag. It's heavy, and I struggle to carry it to the clubhouse, but I am excited to see the look on my aunt's face when she sees its contents. I feel vindicated for insisting on trying to find it, but also very humbled that God has shown us this favor. When my aunt casually asks what's in the bag (flashback: Dorothy asking the Wizard, "I don't suppose you've got anything in that black bag for me"), I am happy to see her eyes also tear up when I pull out the albums and we discover together that the photos inside have survived.

I am still struggling to let go of my stuff, reminding myself that even photos aren't eternal, that in the end even they don't matter. I am still struggling to learn to be bold in asking for help without guilt or shame. I am still struggling with adjusting to living in someone else's space, abiding by their routines and rules, reminding myself of my Savior who had "no place to lay his head." I can share this with Him - all of it, even the anger and frustration - and He will continue to give me His peace.

And that is beautiful.