Death is like a Fire

A 100 year old barn burned down last week. The fire started in the middle of the night, without warning. Only the late-night owl of the family could've noticed the flames from outside the window.

Panic ensued, people were awoken and sprang into action, emergency services were called. In the end, it was too late to save the barn.

In the immediate aftermath there was the usual outpouring of help and support. A search party went out looking for a horse that ran away in terror. A temporary fence was constructed to keep the rest of the herd from the harmful debris. Insurance was called - and yes, the barn will be covered.

The fire uncovered so much as it burned away the protective roof and walls. 400 fresh hay bales, incinerated. The dependable farm truck, no longer usable. The stack of furniture from previous generations, burned but still recognizable.

All those are contained in a big pile of refuse that is being dug through day by day. But what can't be contained is the paper. Burnt fragments caught by the wind seem to spread further by the day. Here, a portion of a bill. There, the index of a book. A few steps away, a scrap of paper from who knows what. The fire was contained but the fragments are not. They are blown with the wind.

As I go about my regular farm business I am brought back to sobering reality by the sight of the family picking through the pile. The barn will likely be rebuilt, some day, though it may take years for the debris to be cleared and a fresh patch of dirt readied for a new building. Looking at the pile spread far beyond the perimeter of what was, it's hard to imagine a future in which something new can be constructed.

And I realize that as it is with the barn fire, so it is with death.

It comes out of nowhere, starting when you least expect it. There's panic and trauma as the tragedy unfolds and an immediate outpouring of support when it ends. Insurance is called and everyone sighs with relief that there was some planning for a worst-case scenario. Onlookers move on at this point, eager to get back to normal while the family stands in a pile of debris, nearly paralyzed with the shock of it all. History, like family heirlooms, is uncovered but charred. Future hopes, like fresh hay, are incinerated. The things of daily like, like the farm truck, no longer function. Everything has changed.

And bits of history - of shared memories, inside jokes, and stories told best by the person who died- float away in the breeze. You can't contain them if you try. The devastation, despite the frantic attempts to contain it, is too vast. The wind, too strong.

Onlookers will encourage a quick rebuilding. They will encourage the family to throw all the debris in the dumpster, clear the land, cash in the insurance and look to the future. But they don't need a bulldozer to sweep away memories of the past as if it would take away their pain. They need friends to slowly, carefully pick through the debris. They need people to stay as long as it takes... even if it takes years. Even if they choose not to rebuild.

Because the family knows what the onlookers don't. What's gone is never forgotten. What burned is never erased.