Fire

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, my phone rang. That’s never a good sign. When I answered, my mother told me their house was on fire. For a split second, I thought it was the new house that they’d just moved into. But, thankfully, it was not.

It was their old house. The one they were ready to sell. A nasty thunderstorm moved through our area during the night, and, according to the fire marshal, a lightning bolt (or perhaps two) struck my parents’ house, plunging through the two stories and hitting the propane gas line. The gas immediately caught fire. The marshal said it was like a massive blow torch burning through the house. The fire was so hot that the flames were blue.

Much of the inside of the house is gone. The entire kitchen and dining room no longer exist. Though a few of the walls are still there, suspended from the ceiling like teeth in an old crone's mouth. Eventually, their weight will pull them loose, and they'll fall to the basement. Most of the metal in the house—wrought iron railings, brass chandeliers, etc., are all melted.

Thankfully, my parents had their belongings out of the house. And even more thankfully, no one was in the house. Had my parents and my 94 year old grandmother been in the house, I doubt they would have escaped. The fire was too fast and too violent. In fact, a neighbor said that when the bolt struck, it knocked him off the couch. God was so merciful to my family. 

Thanks to Rachael Venema of Raeven Photography for taking the photo of my parents' house.