Rebuilding After a Major Loss
I recently had an experience that caused me to think differently about what it means to rebuild after a loss. It started simply, with devastating news posted by my aunt on Facebook:
It was devastating news.
My maternal grandparents bought those 160 acres (named Parramore Springs) after years of already spending time in that part of Northern California.
Every summer, my grandmother took my mother and her brothers up to Parramore, and they lived in Parramore for those two months. My grandfather would visit on weekends, bringing up the food that they had no access to otherwise.
To call Parramore “remote” would be understating the situation. It sat in the middle of the Mendocino National Forest and was originally a homestead. You leave the closest gas station behind in Upper Lake 45 minutes before you turn down the dirt road that leads to the gate – which itself sits more than a half-mile from the main cabin.
Parramore strongly influenced my childhood. My grandparents took all the cousins up for Cousins Week once a year, and then we usually also spent another weekend or two up there in the summer.
With one running toilet and no electricity, Parramore was the ultimate get-away.
I hadn’t been up there in years for many reasons, but I’ve always longed to bring my husband and daughter up there.
And now, I heard, it was gone. The Ranch Fire, one of four major fires raging in California at the time (and still only 59% contained at the time of this writing, ate up a tremendous amount of acreage. So far, 295,000+ acres have been destroyed by this one fire, the equivalent of 460 square miles. (For reference, New York City is 305 square miles; Chicago is 234.)
All those memories of my grandparents, my childhood – they were all gone. Nature will rebuild the forest, but it can’t rebuild my grandmother’s crocheted blanket that sat on the only bed in the one-bedroom main cabin or the 60 years of empty beer and soda cans that sat on a ledge over the dining room. The coveted knives that rattled? Melted, most likely, in the extreme heat of the fire.
Our whole family went into mourning, holding out slim hope that perhaps – perhaps! – Parramore had been spared by the brush clearing my uncles had done over the previous 15 years.
Grief is tough. I’ve written about it before, and I’m sure I’ll write about it again.
It’s painful. We mourn a loss that is beyond our control.
Fortunately, I had an opportunity to spend some time with Mike, my therapist, in the middle of this grief experience. I unpacked all the feelings and experiences that Parramore represented to me.
I remembered that the buildings are gone, but we haven’t lost the deed to Parramore. Those 160 acres belong to our family, even now.
Maybe, there was a hidden opportunity in this loss.
Maybe, instead of spreading the cabins out across the property, it was an opportunity to rebuild differently and bring us all closer together. Perhaps we could look at the functions that the barn and the garage served and find a better way to meet them.
There’s no Parramore police telling us that the new structures have to go where the old structures were. Re-creating the past is impossible; it’s a fool’s errand to rebuild the structures to look as they previously had.
As I continued to talk with Mike, the truth of this came home to me: Life always follows death.
It’s good to mourn. Mourning our losses is healthy.
Even so, at some point, we can acknowledge that all is not lost. We enter a period of rebuilding. Whether it’s physical structures, our relationships, or how we live, part of the process is to rebuild.
Those losses represent opportunities. The question isn’t “Does the opportunity exist?” but, “What will I make of the opportunity in front of me?”
Is this easy? No, although some times are easier than others. Change is scary and uncomfortable, even for the most adventurous amongst us.
Rebuilding also helps us heal the pain we’ve experienced. It gives us hope and excitement for the future in front of us. It helps us be grateful for the time we had, and to reframe our loss in healthier ways.
Hope lives in possibilities; hope lives in the future.
Life always follows death.
Good news! We ultimately discovered that, by the grace of God and thanks to the extensive fire-defensive work done by my uncles over the past 15 years, we only lost one structure and the water tower. We are grateful that Parramore was spared. I am grateful for the lesson I learned: Opportunity exists when we rebuild.
Have you chosen to walk through God’s door to put on your new self? What’s holding you back? What encourages you?
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