...Continued from April 21, "Twice" 

My cell phone did not stop beeping and vibrating as texts, Facebook messages, comments, emails and phone calls poured in offering meals and places to stay and asking, "how can we help?"  Honestly, I could barely wrap my mind around what I'd just done and what was currently happening. And there really wasn't anything anyone could do. 

"Just pray" was my reply over and over again. Pray. Please just pray. 

As I drove to Wal-Mart, re-routed once because the sheriffs were keeping 1804 clear for UMary evacuation traffic, my mom called and said that she couldn't get my dad to leave and that she didn't know what to do. I told her she had to leave, just go. He would hopefully follow, but if he didn't, we couldn't have her staying there too.  

"Mom, we can't lose both of you to this fire. You have to leave." As soon as the words left my mouth they sounded so harsh. Even now, a week later, they sound brutal. But they were spoken from a place of desperation and of love. The very thought that we could lose my dad in this fire overwhelmed me with anger and sadness. And hearing my mom waffle in her decision to leave him behind overtook me with fear. This fire could not, it would not, take my family. 

"It can have my home, but please, dear God, don't let it take my parents." 

The kids were crying, wailing about their "stupid Pops" staying behind in the path of danger. 

My husband called to say he'd made it to Wal-Mart and to ask where we were. I told him we were en route and that my mom had finally just left the house but that Pops had not. Scott asked what he should do. Should he go and help my dad? 

"Hell no. You are not going down there. I can't have you down there being an idiot too. We can't lose him and lose you." I took a ragged breath. "And anyway, I doubt they'll let you in. The sheriffs were on the corner." 

I hung up with Scott because my mom was calling through. Her words were an ocean breeze, whooshing peace to my heart and relief to my mind. 

"Your dad called, he's left and on his way to Wal-Mart." 

"Oh Praise God! Praise God!" 

As we pulled into the parking lot, Gracey was crying about the trampoline and her playhouse in our backyard. And her pink violin in her bedroom. Adam tried to console her, telling her these were just things that could be replaced. Yet, my own mind flashed to our vintage (read: old, beat-up, yet treasured) pop-up camper sitting in the back corner of our yard, about 100 feet from the flames. Why didn't I try and hook it up and pull it out? We only bought it last summer, why didn't I try to save it?

These were among the first questions I asked Scott when he pulled my sobbing self to his chest there outside the garden center at the South Wal-Mart. He just reminded me that I did everything I should and got everyone out and that was all that mattered. But then we heard small explosions and all of us turned to the south where the smoke clouded UMary hill. I didn't say it then, but I was certain those explosions were all the propane cans packed away with our camping stuff inside our Little Grass Shack (the old, beat-up, treasured camper). 

Within a few minutes, my sister was there. She'd come to be with us. And then my mom arrived followed by my dad who grinned like the Cheshire cat when I scolded him for scaring us. He told us that he intended to stay and fight the fire using the hoses and the well, but the smoke got too thick and disoriented him. That's when he saw that the dogs were in the car and I'd left his car running (hint, hint) and he knew he had to go. He said that the flames were behind our house now, in the pasture and he asked us and my mom about our fire insurance. 

Still the texts and messages beeped on my phone. Still I just said, "pray." 

My mom had me call and book rooms at the La Quinta and then someone asked if we were going to eat dinner.

"Dinner is done. It's in the oven," I said and then I laughed. I was just about to pull it out of the oven when it was time to leave, so there it sat. Scott wanted to know if I'd remembered to turn off the oven and I said I had. 

And this is where humor happened. I pictured that chicken in the oven, sitting there, waiting for us and I laughed. Potatoes for the kids in the microwave and steamed veggies on the stove. All of it there, cooling inside the smoke-filled house, waiting for us to come home. What would the firemen think when they broke down doors to put out flames? I laughed. I actually laughed. 

We sat in the parking lot, Adam on the grass, me on the curb, Pops in his car, Scott and Grammy pacing circles as my sister and Gracey went into Wal-Mart, for an hour. Just trying to get hold of ourselves and what was happening. 

As we got to the hotel, Scott's dad called. He'd just gotten home to his boat in CA and had logged in to our web cam. It sits in our backyard and his parents can watch us 24/7 whenever they want. It's like our private security system. He told Scott that there were firemen all over our yard and that he could see flames. And that something had just ignited that second in the kids' play area. At once I was both relieved that our house was still standing and heartbroken that the kids play area was on fire. Their playhouses and forts, swings and climbing things all sit under a cluster of 40-foot cottonwood trees, next to it their trampoline and the Little Grass Shack. 

We spoke to them several times over the next few hours; they watched the scene until it was dark. Every call brought us a glimmer of hope. The fire, they said, had been contained/pushed back behind our fence line and our yard was in-tact though something had burned in the play area, they could not tell what. 

"What about Little Grass Shack?" I asked. Scott repeated the question to his dad, then nodded, smiled and gave me the thumbs up. 

Prayer was working. My God was hearing the prayers of my friends and family and He was saving my house. My God was on my side. Again. 

Eventually, the evacuation orders were lifted and we decided to go with my parents down to our houses to see what we could. As we came down the small hill, I remembered our trips through the flood waters to check on our houses. The same anxiety and anticipation came over me now. As we came around the bend and saw flames dancing in the fields and along the hill followed by dozens of flashing fire truck lights, we collectively sucked in our breath.  Behind our house, the pasture was aglow with small fires, one creeping its way up a tree behind our house. 

It was so beautiful. It looked like a scene from a Disney ride and it was so beautiful. But I knew it wasn't supposed to be beautiful. It was ugly and destruction and scary. Why was it so peaceful and beautiful? The flood had been that way too. If you didn't look at the sandbags or the dead carp, the water was peaceful and beautiful. 

We checked the house, moved Little Grass Shack, saw the burnt pile of hay that had once served as a climbing thing in the kids' play area and thanked God for sparing their forts and swings. Burnt hay? Big deal. Those cottonwood trees were still standing and so were all their play things. 

Our house was smoky inside. I put our cold, cooked dinner in the fridge and we went back to the hotel for the night. 

A dear treasured friend and mentor called me and reminded me of Daniel. There he was thrown into the fire yet he knew His God would rescue him. My heart had a new fondness for this Bible hero. 

When we returned home the next morning, we were overwhelmed. The fire had literally stopped at the property lines of not only our house, but at those of our neighbors too. Literally stopped at the fence lines. 

And then we saw the singed netting of the trampoline enclosure and the burnt grass that had been under the Little Grass Shack and I cried again. God had not only spared our homes, He'd spared these things as well. The fire had literally burnt a black patch under and around our stupid camper -- the one I lamented leaving behind -- but not an inch of the camper was damaged. 

Firemen came and went for much of the following three days. We used buckets, hoses and sprinklers to put out hot spots and flare ups. We called 911 at least twice to put out fires that we spotted even two days ago. We had many opportunities to thank the firemen and congratulate them on a job well done. They were amazing. They fought this fire with all the had. The one fire chief told us this was the fastest moving fire he's seen in his 28 years of service. And he said it was the first time some of his men considered giving up and running because it was fierce, fast and kept changing directions. He said it was in front of them at one point and behind them the next second. It was a big, fast-moving, dangerous fire. And yet they'd been able to contain it and to save every home.

Not a single home was lost. Not a single person was injured. Nearly 3,000 acres burned. But buildings, posessions and people were spared. 

Those firemen, they were heroic. 

But, you need to know something. You prayed. You were heroic in your prayers. Some of you prayed through tears. You prayed. God heard you. God acted on behalf of your prayers. 

He sent a mighty army of angels with fire hoses -- both physical men in uniforms and spiritual beings with wings -- and He defeated this fire. And He did that because you prayed. Because together, across this globe, friends and family, strangers and loved ones called out to God and asked Him to act. 

We hung a sign out front of our home. It says it better than I ever could.

If we are thrown into the blazing fire, the God whom we serve is able to save us. He will rescue us... Daniel 3:17

He is able to save us. He is willing to save us. He will rescue us. 

And He did. 

He did because you prayed. "Ask and you shall receive when you ask in my name." 

You may not have held a fire hose or dug a fire break, yet you extinguished a fire when you knelt before your God and prayed. Prayer is a powerful tool. Thank you for using it on our behalf. Let this fire remind you always of the power you hold to go before the Almighty God and say, "Please." 

I calmly but quickly loaded the kids and the "go bags" into the car. Stopped to look at my beloved house and drove away, a lump in my throat, and my heart pushing at my chest. Twice I've done this. Twice I've evacuated my house not knowing what -- if anything -- we'd come back to when the worst was over. 

Twice. 

Twice I've left my home, my offspring safely buckled into the backseat and my most precious of belongings stuffed into every crevice of my SUV. Twice I've told myself, "It's just stuff. The important thing is we're all safe." Twice I've cried hysterical, gulping, gasping, sobs so crazy and overtaking that the person on the other end of the phone can't understand what I'm saying. Twice. 

The first time was four years ago when the "Flood of 2011" caused the Mighty Missouri to deliberately and slowly march out of its banks and overtake neighborhoods. The water crept in slowly that June morning. We'd been waiting for it for a week. Friends had moved furniture, packed boxes, filled sandboxes, held me while I cried. We'd just moved into this house. I'd just thrown away my last moving box. And they told us there would be four feet of river water on our main floor. 

But like the second time, the first time natural disaster hit, God proved more powerful, more capable, more trustworthy than even the wisest emergency manager or land surveyor. The water indeed came to our house. Groundwater seeped into our garage and our crawl space, but the river, though it rushed down our driveway and filled our yard to depths of three feet, it never touched our house. That was God. 

Since the flood that kept us from our home for three months, I've always said, "I don't ever want to go through a flood again, but I'd never wish it away." That flood changed me. It made me see what was really important and what was just "stuff." And I don't just mean material belongings. I'd filled my life with so much "stuff" that I'd lost sight of what was important. The flood? It washed that away. It gave me perspective. 

But that's not all. I remember that when Evacuation Day came, we thought we were ready. We'd already moved most of our things to my sister's house. We'd already sandbagged. We pretty much thought all that was left to do was to load the possessions we can't do a day without -- clean underwear, wallets, toothbrushes -- and get in the car and go. But we were so wrong. From the time the water slithered into our neighborhood until we pulled away, we had two hours. And for every second of that two hours we were working on getting out. 

There was still so much left to do when the time came to go.

And that's what I kept thinking last Monday when the first wildfire in Burleigh County burned acres of trees and grass just three-and-a-half miles south of our house. I saw the towers of billowing smoke and watched the exodus of neighbors and knew that if the wind changed directions, we would be joining them. But the teams of firemen put out the fire and a few hours later, normal life resumed. 

Still, I'd had a dream on Saturday night that the field to the west of our home had caught fire and we'd been forced to leave without anything. And that dream haunted me. So before we went to bed, I got out the box of important documents and packed our wedding album and both kids' baby books. I told my mom -- who thought I was crazy -- that I'd rather have to put them away later then leave them behind. 

Tuesday afternoon, at 4:20pm, I opened my backdoor to let my dad out and we saw the undulating nebula of smoke south of our backyard and knew the fire had reignited. A few minutes later, my husband called. He was on his way home from Montana and had heard on the radio that the fire had reignited and jumped the creek that snakes its way behind our property. "Turn on the radio," he urged. "Be alert." 

I went upstairs and turned on KFYR. And for some reason, I decided this was the perfect chance to move the Lego table and bookshelves in Adam's room. I needed a few minutes to process. My mom called and said that the fire was on the UMary hill, about 2 miles south of us. "Still far away," she said. I went out on the upstairs lanai and the thick smoke clouded everything past the trees of the pasture behind us. The wind was blowing steadily and strongly to the northwest, right toward us. 

That's when I packed the go bags. I told the kids, as calmly and even-voiced as possible, that the fire was nearby and the wind was blowing our direction. Once the bags were packed, I put on my shoes. That's when Gracey said, "Mom, are we gonna leave?" I shrugged. 

5pm. I called my husband and asked if there was anything he wanted me to be sure I packed. I piled his selections alongside mine. Laptops, safe filled with photo dvds, family movies and things like social security cards, the small jewelry box of family heirloom jewelry, our Bibles, clothes, medications. 

5:30pm. I'm talking to my mom -- who is also my neighbor -- on the phone and she says, "Oh my gosh, the flames are behind the neighbor's house." I go outside and look to the southeast and can see the red-orange glow, swear I can feel the heat, and in slow motion turn to see the neighbor running with her horse away from the flames. 

This thing just got real. 

Back in the house, the kids are upstairs playing XBox. I call out, "Okay, guys, I think it's time to turn that off." Adam hears the catch in my voice. He knows. "Go ahead and grab your bags from upstairs and put them in the car." And that starts our loading of the cars. 

5:37pm I update my Facebook status in between trips to the car:  
Kristy Rose
April 14 at 5:37pm · Flames in sight. PRAY NOW!

My dad stands in our walkway, looking at the fire approaching, arguing, "they're on other side of the creek." 

"Whatever, dad. It's time to go," I tell him. He goes back across the driveway. We finish loading. 

Before we leave, I go to my mom's. She's frantically packing. We throw stuff into a bag. I grab her dogs and throw them into my dad's car as he goes racing by on his UTV. Towards the fire. I chase after him yelling, "It's just stuff, Dad. Leave it go. It's just a house. We have to go." 

I make sure my mom is in the car and we start to go. My dad is still pulling hoses, trying to hook them to faucets. He intends to fight this fire. The kids are crying and screaming in the back seat. They're freaking out that their Pops is going to die in this stupid fire. Mama bear kicks in and as the smoke thickens around us, I know  we have to go. I call Scott and tell him we're leaving. "Meet us at Wal-Mart," I say. We've never picked a meet-up place before. When the flood came, we were all home together. I didn't have to do it alone that time. 

As we leave, I whisper "Thank you" to the Sheriff directing evacuees at the corner of our street. He nods solemnly. "Drive safely," he says. 

I start to cry. I drive away adrenaline on high, chest tight, feeling defeated. Not knowing what will come of this. Again. Again I leave my home but this time I'm pretty sure I won't have a home to come back to when this is all over. 

Yet, there's a peace. I remember God's goodness in the flood. I remember that He was with us every step of the way. And I tell myself that even in this there will be beauty. Even in this, there will be something for which we can say, "thank you."  Even in this, God will use it for my good and for His glory. And even this will make me stronger. It won't defeat me. He won't let it. 

To be continued...