How do I begin to share about my evacuation experience?... It was utterly traumatic, and yet felt so strangely familiar and run-of-the-mill, like any other Tuesday would have. But of course it was a Saturday not a Tuesday, and it was anything but ordinary.
With less than 24 hours notice, my family and I had to analyze every material belonging we had and prioritize between the myriad of items that make up our "lives." We all agree that while 24 hours sounds short, it was actually far too long and we would have done even better with half the time. We only know this so definitively because we've had to do it before in a much smaller fraction of the time. By now it seems we are becoming pros at the pack-and-dash method of evacuation. In the face of sudden disaster and impending doom, making rational decisions becomes almost completely impossible and frankly not entirely important either. What's far more important than rational decisions are instinctual ones. If given the choice, I really should pack the comfy T-shirt with holes in it that my best friend gave me in high school rather than one of the fancy work blouses I got from Macy's. Why? Work clothes can be replaced; memories can't. And the chances of me sitting in a client meeting in the days following a fiery eruption are slim to none anyways. To provide context and a bit of backstory for anyone who isn't already familiar, I live in Santa Rosa, CA and we experienced a tragic wildfire in 2017 that burned large portions of ours and the neighboring counties, and decimated over 5,000 homes - thankfully not ours, even though by all rights it should have. We woke up at 2am to glowing hills on the horizon, and in less than a few short hours we began watching our neighbor's rooftops begin catching fire. Pushed by 60+ mph winds, the flames rushed over the hills, through the canyons, and into town with a speed none of could have ever anticipated or prepared for, even if we had known it was coming. Just last week we got to relive some of that trauma again during the Kincade fire in the Northern part of our county, the part that got missed last time. As I said, this time we had a lot more notice and were much more prepared. Thankfully far less people were hurt by this year's fire, even though twice as much land was burned and the winds reached even higher and more dangerous speeds than before. Huge portions of town were evacuated as a precaution, and over 200,000 of us all got to relive that experience all over again. Even though the threat has now passed and we can get back to our "regular lives," the effects linger in many of us as we process what just happened and how it affects our daily lives. One of the biggest things that struck me as we left our home a second time was an awareness of just how much we were leaving behind. Mostly useful, memorable, cute stuff - and yet still just stuff none the less. Aside from that handful of memories that truly can't be replaced, we were faced with the nearly impossible task of choosing to either save trivial belongings simply because we could, or to pack on the lighter and leaner side for the sake of speed and ease of travel. I definitely can't say that my bag was lean, but in comparison to what was left behind it sure did make a big impression. In fact if I'd had the ability to take anything more, I would only have wanted to save more of my original paintings which are truly unique and irreplaceable. God has been showing me through this small, poignant microcosm just how similar packing a go-bag is to living a clean, distraction-free life. There are a few priorities to hold onto no matter what - things that will be important no matter where you are or how fast you're running - and then there are all the other nice things that make life more comfortable while you have the luxury of holding onto them. But no matter how nice the luxuries are, they can never replace those things that are truly valuable and make life worth living, nor should they begin to encroach on those core priorities. Sometimes I find myself holding onto too much extra stuff, and even though it's perfectly good stuff, it's still cluttering up my life and actually making it harder for me to enjoy what's truly important. That's when I know it's time to take a good hard look, make some instinctual decisions, and let the rest move along to another home. Just like how wildfire clears out the clogged underbrush that's built up on the forest floor, sometimes I have to clear out all my extra stuff so I can breath a little deeper and move more freely into what God has next for me. It isn't always easy and it usually isn't fun, but it's always worth the end result. I guess sometimes it just takes a natural disaster to make me realize that.
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