by Janene Baadsgaard
My husband and I drove up to our cabin last night
after suddenly receiving a pre-evacuation order. “If you have any valuables,
get them out now!” the order said. The whole wooded mountainside behind our
cabin was engulfed in roaring, towering flames. Our cabin is situated in Loafer
Canyon between Elk Ridge and Woodland Hills.
As we drove quickly toward our cabin, warning sirens blared and fire fighters scrambled to set up a command post in the parking lot of an LDS chapel at the base of the mountain. Cars formed a long line as thousands of men, women and children in Elk Ridge and Woodland Hills raced from their homes after a sudden mandatory evacuation notice.
As we drove quickly toward our cabin, warning sirens blared and fire fighters scrambled to set up a command post in the parking lot of an LDS chapel at the base of the mountain. Cars formed a long line as thousands of men, women and children in Elk Ridge and Woodland Hills raced from their homes after a sudden mandatory evacuation notice.
When we got to our cabin it was raining ash all
around us. We walked up the steps with cinder in our eyes and stepped in the
front door. What do we take? What are our valuables? We only had a few minutes.
Knowing this might be the last time we stepped
inside our cabin, I quickly walked from room to room filming the cozy country
retreat we created for our family to enjoy. In a few moments all this might go up in smoke. This cabin in the forest was our dream realized - what my
husband and I had saved up for our entire married lives. I filmed the hand
stitched pillow on our bed describing our place with the words, “Almost Heaven”
and the cabin rules taped to the fridge: 1. Relax, 2. Breathe the fresh
mountain air, 3. Listen to the wind in the trees, 4. Gaze up at the stars . . .
I quickly dashed up the stairs hearing the echo of
my grandchildren’s laughter as cousins made forever friends playing dress-ups
and chess. I filmed Grandpa’s four-wheeler imagining the flushed faces of my grandchildren
after a ride in the crisp autumn air. I looked over the deck and remembered
children jumping from the ledge into a pile of snow in the winter on a frosty dark
night. I thought about the last time we made s’mores over the coals as dusk
fell and the sound of crickets filled the air. While I filmed, my husband gathered our valuables .
. . which in the end amounted to a stack of family pictures. Nothing else seemed
important. Then we knelt at the side of our couch and prayed.
“Dear God, thank you for the gift of this cabin and
all the loving family memories we’ve made here. If it is Thy, will please
protect it from the fire. But if not, give us the faith to rebuild and move
forward.”
There was no time to load a cabin full of
appliances, tables, chairs, beds, and chests into the truck and that didn't seem important any more. We knew as we
looked one last time at our cabin, that we already had everything that was valuable
to us . . . each other, our family and our faith. No matter how fierce the
winds, or how high the flames, no destructive work of nature or man could take
away our love - and that is what is most valuable. For all power, position and possessions will someday go up in flames. When the smoke dissipates and we see clearly . . . only love remains.
