Rekindled Hope

 Rekindled Hope

A typically perfect day was dawning on the west coast as I prepared for work. I truly loved my job at Lindbergh Field in San Diego, and I was looking forward to the day ahead.

1985 had already been cruel to me. My beloved Aunt Sarah passed away on my 21st birthday, and just two weeks later, I received the tragic news of Grace’s death. To say I was shell-shocked would be an understatement.

Grace had been like a sister to me. We were inseparable, and she was the one who had introduced me to my first love. Mike and I had been going strong for 18 months. Life felt full and beautiful—I truly felt blessed.

The drive to work was pleasant, though uneventful. The morning crowd was heavy, and the day moved quickly. Around lunchtime, I noticed a man named Lee working intently on the wiring for our malfunctioning phone system. His phone suddenly rang. I heard him exclaim, “Litchfield Drive already?!” The name struck me—it was just a few blocks from my home. But I brushed it off and continued on with my day.

Later, while sitting in the golf cart on the ramp, basking in the warm summer sun, my mind began to wander. Off in the distance, I spotted a tall, dark, billowing cloud. It looked like a fire, maybe ten miles away. Just then, the aircraft I’d been waiting for arrived, pulling me back to the moment. As I drove up to meet the passengers and escort them to the lounge, they mentioned they’d seen a fire near the stadium while on final approach. It looked bad, they said—possibly a canyon fire.

Chills ran up my spine. Lee’s earlier comment echoed in my mind. My heart began to race. Impossible, I told myself, willing my imagination to settle down.

Still uneasy, I walked back inside and asked Lee what had happened on Litchfield Drive. “Awful fire,” he said, running out the door. “Just jumped the freeway—now it’s in my canyon!”

My heart dropped.

My childhood home had been my parents’ dream come true. As the youngest of eight, I’d spent most of my life in that house. It resembled a dollhouse, filled with love and memories. All my siblings lived nearby—ours was a close-knit, beautiful neighborhood.

I tried calling home. No answer. Then I tried Eileen. Still nothing. Finally, I reached my sister-in-law, Laurie. Her voice was urgent. “Don’t even go home, Mair. It’s not there. Completely gone. We’re being evacuated. Everyone’s at Terry’s—we’ll meet you there.”

The drive to my sister’s house was a blur, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. How could a perfect summer day in San Diego turn so dark, so fast?

Eileen met me at the door. I collapsed into her arms, sobbing. “What’s next?!” I cried. The entire family was there, huddled around two televisions with live coverage. Flames were now shooting out of our home, the firestorm engulfing everything—originating, I later realized, from my own bedroom.

I thought of the stuffed seal pup on my nightstand and the delicate gold bracelet Mike had given me, wrapped around its neck like a collar that first Christmas we spent together. The image pierced my heart.

Mom and Dad tried to comfort us. “Everything happens for a reason,” they said, over and over. “Thank God no one was hurt, and all the pets were rescued. It’s a miracle.” But I couldn’t feel thankful. First Aunt Sarah, then Grace, and now the loss of our home—all within weeks. I felt raw, exposed, and completely lost.

Thankfully, our parents had full insurance, and by nightfall, our agent had arrived with a check. As the adrenaline began to wear off, Mom, looking weary and drained, said all she wanted was to be near water. She and Dad booked a room at a hotel on Mission Bay and got one for me too. But I stayed with them that night, not wanting to be alone.

The next morning, we returned to assess the damage. The neighborhood looked like a war zone. The fire had hopscotched randomly—one house reduced to ash, the next completely untouched. Ours was gone, save for the chimney standing tall like a tombstone.

Therapists were deployed to help residents cope, and our large family met with a kind counselor, Dr. Moredock. We barely fit in the room, but it was comforting to be together. When it came to my turn to speak, all I could do was cry. “We’ll talk privately,” he said gently. I nodded, too choked up to answer.

Over the next few months, life slowly began to settle. We rented a little house nearby while our home was being rebuilt. I continued therapy and finally began to heal.

By Christmas Eve, I was preparing to attend Midnight Mass, lost in thought about all we’d been through. Suddenly, the phone rang. It was Mom. “Come by the lot before Mass,” she said, a strange lightness in her voice.

As I turned onto our old street, a soft amber glow caught my eye. That lone, charred tree on the property was lit up with Christmas lights. And the sound of Silent Night floated through the air.

My family had gathered on the lot, faces aglow with candlelight, singing carols to me.

I cried, deeply and freely. Something in me cracked open—the wall I had built around my heart began to crumble. For the first time in months, I let the feelings flood in.

When the last carol ended, Mom handed me a small empty box with a note: This box represents everything you lost in the fire—your pictures, your diploma, even your class ring.

I stared at her, puzzled. Then Dad stepped forward with a second note:

There are many things you did not lose—things no fire can take from you: your hopes, your dreams, and your future. These will bring you joy. But they need a place to be safely stored. And that’s what this next box is for.

As they stepped aside, I saw it—an exquisite cedar chest, crafted in rich, fragrant wood.

For the first time that year, I felt joy again. Real, deep, lasting joy.

Many decades have passed since that fateful year. But the lessons I took from 1985 remain:

Faith over fear. Strength over sorrow. Hope over despair.

I am still a work in progress. But the light of my family’s love—that unforgettable night on the lot—has never left me. It carried me through then, and still does today.