The Camp Fire Effect

Last night my daughter, my niece, and I sat outside in the crisp, clear  air with blankets covering our legs. A sea of people sat in front of us facing a screen. Behind us were people standing and talking quietly. To the side was a mausoleum with a Christmas tree in it. Words projected on a screen invited us to find our loved one’s ornament. Young and old–moms and dads, children and grandparents were filing in and out of the mausoleum, spending a few moments at the Christmas tree.

After securing chairs, I entered the mausoleum and looked at the tree,  searching for the ornament with my mother’s name on it. My niece met me there. We hunted until we found “Evelyn Brumbaugh” on an ornament hanging high in the tree. Mother’s snowflake ornament’s place of honor was amongst many others, attesting to their passing in 2018.

The Remembrance Ceremony

We returned to our seats and the ceremony began. The director of hospice from the City of Paradise CA said kind words to the Camp Fire’s displaced families who had joined the group due to their recent loss of family members. A moment of silence on their behalf offered me an opportunity to pray for them. The lady in front of me dabbed at her tears while he spoke. Her sadness of heart was apparent. More was said to the assembly gathered there in the parking lot.

A poem was read. Three candles were lit, one for Christmases past, one for Christmas present, and one for future Christmases. A brief rendering  was given of our past happy times with our departed loved ones, our loss this year, and how our future is now changed with the passing of our loved ones and how our memories will endure.

Beautiful outdoor snow scenes flashed on the screen. Soothing music accompanied the pictorial snow scenes. Names began to appear in bold black lettering overlaying the snow scene with last names starting with ‘A’  and then progressing in alphabetical order. I was anticipating my mother’s name: B, Ba, Bo, Br, Bro, Bru, Brumbaugh, Evelyn Brumbaugh. Even though I was ready, it was still startling to see my mother’s name on the screen. My heart responded with a light flutter. The sting of tears made me blink. I miss my mom.

A person’s name of someone I knew from the past flicked on the screen. He was the grandfather of a niece with whom I have a close relationship and is from my ex-husband’s side of the family. Seeing her grandfather’s name on the screen reminded me of my role in her life. Noticing her aunt in the crowd brought more memories of days when our families would get together with our wee little ones in tow. I wished I could connect with her and give her a hug, but I couldn’t get close enough.

The Beauty Enfolds Around Us

A oneness of centeredness descended quietly on the crowd. We were in this together. We’d all lost someone this year. What joined us was in the grieving and sharing of our loss, a commonality of the effects of death made extra surreal by the tragic loss of loved ones in the Camp Fire. These dear ones were being memorialized right along with the local funeral home’s own list of those whom had passed on in 2018.

I felt it. My daughter felt it, my niece felt it, a bond of unity with those around us, like a softness, a cloak that drew us close within its warm embrace. We were one of many in our separate but collective loss.

To close out the service, the crowd was invited to sing “O Holy Night”. The artist’s rendition was powerful. On the screen the song’s lyrics were highlighted. I gazed at the ebony sky as we sang its awesomeness. The ending was remarkable and fitting. The service concluded after refreshments were offered. We drank hot cider and ate cookies while the girls and I chatted, our breath chilling in the night air. The night’s event was one of those special memories you will remember for always.

Our Takeaway

Independent of each other, I asked my daughter and my niece what they were thinking about during the service. I was curious about their impressions. Their responses were similar. They were thinking of the people around them and what was binding them and us together for this remembrance. They were thinking about the evacuees who had lost homes, businesses, places of worship, friends and families in the fire.

I felt the same, thinking about our lives connected by death, like a tender kinship one experiences with others as part of death’s curtain now separating us from each other and its poignant reality. And I thought of ministry, how this is a perfect time to give to others during their time of grief.

The girls had anticipated their grandma’s name showing up on the screen and were touched when it appeared. Both were glad we were able to share the moment together. I appreciated them coming with me. I hadn’t wanted to go alone, so I had invited them to accompany me. My father had decided to stay home, which seemed best with it being cold out.

This is my first Christmas without my mother. I’m feeling it.

For some reason, 2018 has held much sorrow. We’ve lost many people: Greats in the public arena, the senior Bushes, McCain; and we’ve lost people we know. I’ve lost people of my acquaintance, a few beloved senior saints in my church passed on; some of my college friends lost their parents (people I knew or had met), and a few well-known celebrities are now gone. Devastation caused by huge fires, hurricanes, and volcanoes have been astounding. Friends and family in California have lost their homes and for some, their livelihood.

I am an optimist. I look forward to new years and new beginnings. As scripture says, we grieve but not like those without hope. Hope is eternal. I choose hope. Won’t you join me?