Lost - and Then Found

We've lost so much over these past months, haven't we? We've lost loved ones, lost our jobs, lost precious time with kids and grandchildren. Things we've always counted on, like school for our children, going to church or to a game, or sitting in a crowded theater - have been swept away. We've lost so many lives, and will lose, I fear, many more. It's hard to imagine how we can ever find our way back to some kind of normal life.

But then I remember the night I lost everything - and found it again.

I was in my twenties, working at a minimum-wage job as a typist at a community college. I was struggling to get by, living in a tiny, one-room apartment in a run-down old building. The hallways smelled. The landlord was indifferent and absent. I had a rickety table, some old pots and pans, a lumpy bed and a fridge that was always breaking down. Every night when I came home after work, I'd look around and think: what a dump. I was depressed and discouraged, and it seemed like my life was going nowhere.

One winter night I woke up suddenly. What's that smell? I thought. There was a shout, and then a crash. "FIRE!" Someone ran down the hall, pounding on doors. I grabbed my cat Misha and wrestled her into her carrier, threw on my coat and shoes and dashed into the hall. We came tumbling out of our apartments, staring at each other's pale faces, and then rushed to the stairwell. It was already filled with smoke. There was nowhere to go but up.

We ended up crowded at a window in the top floor hallway. A firefighter was peering in, perched on the very top of a ladder "Come on!" he urged, holding out a hand. The ground seemed miles below, but one by one he guided us across the gap. I remember how cold the rungs were, as I clung to them and shakily made my way down, still gripping Misha's carrier as she howled in terror.

I'll never forget that moment, when I stood on solid ground at last and looked up at my apartment. The smoke was still pouring out of the lower windows, but the streams of water were doing their job. Soon the fire was nearly out.

Well, I'm here, at least, I thought. I've got my cat, my coat, my shoes and my life.

I slept at a friend's place, and the next morning I walked back over. A small crowd of my fellow tenants were standing in front of the burned building. The landlord was standing at the door, arms folded. "You can go back in," he said curtly.

When I walked back into my apartment and looked around, looked at my books and my photos and my shabby curtains, it wasn't a dump anymore. It had, in my mind, utterly changed. I'd lost, and then found, my life. It had been given back to me, fresh and new and beautiful.

I've found myself often, this year, thinking back to the lesson I learned in that fire. How precious the everyday things are that we take for granted, and how fragile. How they can be swept away in an instant - but then, too, how sometimes they can be found again. How healing can happen, ever so slowly.

Healing. Healing from devastating loss, like the families sitting at tables with empty chairs, or choking out last words to dear ones in hospital beds over a screen. Healing the wounds that have opened in this time of political strife. Healing our nation, somehow.

It sounds naive, I know. But I think of the forests in Australia, devastated by wildfires. Those blackened trunks are sprouting new growth, and a haze of green is slowly, slowly creeping back.

Some things will never be the same, and that may be a good thing. We've already seen wonderful, creative ideas springing up in the empty places like wildflowers, filling the void with music and laughter, creativity and new connections.

Yes, it's there, just ahead of us, that new world, poised to be born. We can each be part of it: helping each other thread our way through the challenges into the future together.

Last year was the year of loss. I hope this year will be the year of healing.