Rainbow in the Flames

Fire on the
Mountain
Dear Heart!
Near Heart!
Long is the journey,
Hard is the tourney;
Would I could be by your side if you fall—
Would that my own heart could suffer it all!
Edwin Markham
Friday, January 30, 1987
Breathing deeply the fresh mountain air, I pause from my gardening
to drink in the scene around me. A late-afternoon
fog is settling like a soft, white shawl on the shoulders of Southern
California’s San Bernardino Mountains. The old homestead cabin
we moved into only four days ago is looking more like a home—our
home. And Jed, my eight-year-old son, is busy doing what he loves
doing most—building roads in the dirt with his Tonka trucks,
supervised by his buddy Champion, our German Shepherd.
There is much unpacking and organizing Jed and I could have
done indoors on this chilly winter day. But after my husband Jere
(pronounced Jerry) drove off to work this morning, Jed and I pulled
on our coats and headed outdoors for another day of yard work and
play. Yesterday we scrubbed out the small cement fishpond in the
yard and refilled it with fresh water. Today we pruned trees and piled
up the branches using the shears, rake, and an old wheelbarrow that
had been left at the cabin. We even took time out for a walk into the
woods. Then Champ and Jed got busy playing in the dirt while I
planted geranium cuttings.
“See my new road, Mommy?” Jed calls proudly. His dusty angel
face is framed by the hood of his quilted cotton jacket. His cheeks
have only recently morphed from classic Gerber-baby sweetness into
innocent growing-boy handsomeness. A darling child, I have to admit.
Jed was born on May 2, 1978 at a small hospital in Northeastern
British Columbia—Canada’s Peace Country. But he had snuggled
into my heart long before I wrapped him in a receiving blanket. Very
early in my pregnancy I dreamed that my baby would be a cheerful,
blue-eyed, blond-haired boy. And Jed truly is the child I dreamed he
would be. Of late I have become concerned about Jed’s comely features.
Could his good looks become a stumbling block for him? Before
Jed was born, Jere decided to name him Jedidiah, King
Solomon’s given name. Together we have prayed that our son will
enjoy the wisdom of Solomon while being saved from his weaknesses.
“Great road, Jed!” I exult while trying to massage the soreness out
of my lower back. I check my watch. “It’s nearly four o’clock. Dad
will be home soon. Will you please start the generator? I need the
stove for preparing dinner.”
“Aw Mommy, do we have to quit?” Jed protests, already knowing
the answer. Reluctantly he parks his trucks, then he and Champ trot
side by side around the corner of the cabin to the power shed. Jed has
always enjoyed tinkering with machines, and he understands the
power system on which the cabin relies for electricity. No wonder
Jere taught him how to start up the generator instead of me.
Climbing the front steps and pulling off my garden boots, my
thoughts turn to preparing for Jere’s return from his new job down
the mountain in San Bernardino. I want to create a centerpiece for
the dinner table using a couple of candles I found in the cabin, hoping
it will bring some cheer to my husband. But first I need to clean
up. In the bathroom, I step out of my work clothes and lean wearily
against the bathroom sink anticipating water pressure that will
emerge from the faucet when the generator starts. It will feel good to
get cleaned up.
I have a lot to be thankful for, Lord. Jed is happy. He’s always happy,
isn’t he? He tries so hard to keep us from being sad about our loss. He’s our
rainbow over the muddy roads of life, especially during these last difficult
years.
The painful reality of why we now live in California instead of
Canada is never far from me. The school ministry we were part of in
Northeastern British Columbia turned sour for us when the board of
directors, comprised largely of our friends, asked us to leave. It was a
crushing blow, especially for Jere whose dream for the wilderness
school we founded on our ranch had been killed. In the years that
followed, Jere withdrew emotionally into a malaise of lethargy and
joylessness. Whenever I probed for reasons or tried to draw him out,
he simply said, “Sorry, Honey, I’m just exhausted.”
Our dismissal was also a serious financial blow. Since the Canadian
wilderness held few opportunities for a person of Jere’s specialized
training in microbiology, he had to cast a wider net to find work. For
the past three years he had a series of jobs in the U.S., and we moved
wherever necessary for him to earn a living. They were good jobs, but
none were quite the right fit.
Then one day Jere walked into the house with news that he had
been offered a position at the Loma Linda University School of
Medicine, about 60 miles east of Los Angeles that would involve
teaching. While we were grateful for a well-paying job in Jere’s field,
none of us wanted to move to a highly populated metropolis. Jere
signed a job contract and rental agreement. Within two weeks we
had relocated, eventually moving into our cabin in a high valley in
the San Bernardino Mountains. In spite of the beautiful wilderness
setting, the gnawing inner pain of betrayal and dashed dreams, and
the quiet distance in Jere’s gray spirit, followed us. Jed remained our
beacon of joy in the midst of a difficult time.
Whump!
I hear and feel a sudden, shudder of sound beyond the bathroom
door, from somewhere near the power shed. I listen, breathlessly
apprehensive. We had seen bear tracks not far from the cabin during
our walk. Is a wild beast attacking my son?
I feel rather than hear Jed’s cry. I throw on my housecoat and race
barefoot through the house and out into the yard. As I round the
corner of the cabin, a bolt of terror rips through me, welding my feet
to the lawn. There’s Jed, struggling to his feet on the grass, his new
cotton jacket in smoldering shreds, his snow pants melted to his legs.
His face is a flat mask of colorless, melted flesh, and his burned hands
hang at his sides, seemingly dripping from the cuffs of his jacket.
My muddled brain tries to put the pieces together. Explosion. Fire.
My baby is…badly burned! Oh, dear Lord!
“Mommy.” Jed’s soft, plaintive cry catapults me into action. Tearing
at his smoldering cotton jacket, I try to prevent the melting zipper from
searing his chest. Blistering hot plastic teeth rip into my flesh, leaving
my hands burned and bleeding. Ricocheting between the paralysis of
panic and jolts of hyper-energy, I can’t think clearly. I can hardly
breathe. Champ stands nearby as if ready to help.
“Don’t panic, Mommy,” Jed says quietly. “Put me in the fishpond.”
In my confusion comes one clear thought: Jed and I scrubbed out
the pond and filled it with fresh water yesterday for a purpose. I slide
my arms under Jed’s armpits and, ignoring the pain in my back, drag-carry
him across the yard. Lowering him into the shallow pond, I ply
the cold, clean water over his face and hands. His burned skin is not
charred but has the color of pale ivory, like molten candle wax.