The Fire

As I sit meditating on the back porch in my favorite outdoor maple rocking chair, a light drizzle descends on the grey patio pavers below. The overcast sky is stirring up not only a chilly breeze but also an event in my mind that took place over thirty years prior. A twinge of anxiety brushes the surface of my thoughts just thinking about the details of the traumatic situation that occurred only six miles away. Although events become corrupted over time, I’m confident enough in the facts to recall them here.

It was a bright and cool Sunday morning as the fire-colored leaves of autumn drenched the backyard of my grandparents’ home. A sun-speckled path twisted its way along the route my grandfather took each day with his beloved Labrador retriever, Brownie. On that day, while visiting, he took me on that path, and I discovered St. Elizabeth’s Church through a gap in the trees. I was six years old, with scrawny arms that looked like shortened two-by-fours strung together with string and barely able to function, yet somehow, miraculously, I did. St. Elizabeth’s sat on a large open-spaced area with grass as green as any pool table top. My first impression? Knights on horses, dragons, and battles for good and evil. A large cross at the tip of its front facade gave it a mystical quality that piqued my interest.

I was invited to attend a mass the next day.

My grandmother explained that as long as I was quiet and didn’t disturb anyone, I could go back again the following week as well; however, that depended on how well I behaved. I remember her looking at me and firmly explaining, “Remember, this is a church. We have to be respectful of other people and listen to what the priest tells us.” I’m sure she was worried about my possible antics at the time, but I recall reassuring her with eager tones, “I know, I know, I’ll be good.” That night, I’m sure I felt the swelling anticipation of finally seeing the castle up close.

The next day finally arrived. After a small bowl of Froot Loops, I stood by the front door, waiting to go.

“Are you ready?” asked my grandfather.
“Yeah,” I groggily replied.

When we got in the car, I could hardly sit still. On the way, I thought I saw the church twice from the back seat; “There it is!” I would immediately yell.
“Not yet,” they’d reply.

Finally, in three ascending tones, my grandfather proclaimed, “There it is!”
As we turned into the parking lot past the trees, I remember it was raining, but this hardly dampened my spirits for a moment. Somehow, it only added to the beauty and mystery of the building.

It was bigger than I anticipated, and as we pulled into our spot, I looked behind to see it through the back windshield and rejoiced in the view. I could now see the stained-glass windows, which were lit up by the interior lighting, helping to display the extraordinary, colorful images. With a dark, looming sky as a backdrop behind the building, I can only describe it as a mixture of excitement, curiosity, and even a bit of spookiness.

Holding my grandmother’s hand, we walked up to the front steps. As a light rain fell upon our heads, I remember the slight slapping sounds my shoes made in the puddles leading to the front doors. Two small statues of snow-white angels sat on each side of the doors in square compartments set into the cement. When my right foot hit the first step, I looked up and saw the two large doors with crosses carved into their centers.

As we reached the top step, my grandfather opened the door for us. For one brief moment, I could hear the dialogue of a recent conversation between some friends the night before: “There’s giants in there!”

As we entered, I was struck by the high ceiling and the long red carpet that ran up the center. The size of the room was astonishing! This was the biggest room I’d ever been in, and it seemed as though there was more than enough space for—frighteningly enough—a giant or a dragon. The pews were made of rich mahogany that gave the impression the lacquer was still wet. As we sat down, I took the time to examine everything around me. The windows displayed numerous multi-colored images of Jesus, Mary, and the apostles in various scenes from the Bible, including another that showed baby cherubs floating above a bearded man in red robes, surrounded by people in surprise or amazement. (I later learned this was Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.) At the front was a huge wooden cross depicting the body of Jesus hanging in agony, blood dripping from the crown of thorns pressed upon his head. Then I saw the altar.

On each side and to the right were long white candles with some sort of red script design running down their centers. Far to the right, near the wall, were smaller candles placed in a section all by themselves. As I looked around, I noticed people in deep contemplation and silent prayer. Coming from somewhere I couldn’t see was an organ playing softly enough for me to whisper to my grandmother, “Is he going to play any Elvis gram?”

Within minutes, I heard the entrance bells, and everyone rose as a priest in white robes made his way to the altar, accompanied by two altar boys. What struck me as odd was that throughout the entire process, we had to stand and sit several times. “Why don’t they just make up their minds?” I wondered. As the priest continued with his speech, it reminded me of my teacher from school—except for one big difference… no homework. When it was all finished, the priest finally stepped in front of the altar, smiling, and said: “Go in peace, and may God bless you.”

Leaving the church, I felt a bit bored but still disappointed that we had to leave. When I saw my friends again later, I was proud to tell them, very sternly, “There’s no giants in there!” In fact, there were no knights or dragons either, but I didn’t care. I felt good.

The very next week, I was given the opportunity to return for a second visit to church. This time, I was a little more familiar with the proceedings. At the same time, some of the mystery had been taken away by my first visit. I again went with my grandparents, and I recall asking if we could talk to the priest this time—but I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps I was curious about why that man was hanging on the cross like that, with blood dripping down his face. We were driving to the church when my grandfather casually said to my grandmother, “Wasn’t it raining last week too?”

As we drove toward the church, a light rain began to fall. I noticed something strange about the trees but dismissed it without saying anything. There seemed to be some kind of weird movement in the background. As we got closer, I heard my grandfather say, “Why are all the cars backed up like that?” Suddenly, I heard my grandmother cry out in a distressed voice, “Oh my God, no!” As we pulled past the cars, almost passing the church, I saw flames and smoke leaping from the windows and front door. There were people in the street around us as my grandfather slowly pulled up to the curb ahead.

I couldn’t believe or understand what I was seeing. My grandfather got out and told us to stay in the car. As his figure grew smaller and he blended in with the crowd, I saw someone familiar. Through a brief clearing of people, I saw the priest standing there in his white robes. About five seconds later, the crowd again obscured his view from my sight. Then something happened that I will probably remember for years to come.

From the side of the church, from somewhere in the back, a man came running out with flames jumping from his clothes and head. I can still see him waving his arms wildly in the air, frantically trying to put out the flames and unable to do so all at once. As my grandmother gasped from the front seat, I saw people rushing toward him, trying to cover him with their jackets and finally rolling him on the ground. So many people surrounded him that we couldn’t see what had happened to him.

A few minutes later, a small group of people approached a car about twenty feet behind us and drove off with him in the back seat. A few minutes after that, fire engines arrived; my grandfather jumped in, and we were asked to leave. He told us everyone else who was inside was OK but badly shaken up. For the next couple of days, I couldn’t get the fire or the man out of my head. Being so young, I never inquired as to how the fire got started, but later on, I found out it was electrical. When I look back now, I can almost hear my thoughts then—”The story always had a happy ending in those books.”

A few weeks later, I went back to my grandparents’ house. As my grandfather and I walked Brownie down the path, more of the leaves had vanished, and the view of the church was clearer. My past anticipation was gone, and my restless questions began to arise—”Is that man OK?… Is God mad at him?…”. The questions were answered in a most delicate and assuring way.

As I stood there gazing out at the sunbeams that settled over the church, I could see the large cross on top of the steeple, although it was now tarnished. The colorful stained-glass windows with such intricate designs were now mostly missing, as were parts of the roof. While we stood there, a side of me now knew that even a castle with knights and dragons was vulnerable and could one day—tragically—be destroyed.

The church was eventually rebuilt years later, and new stained-glass windows were installed with care.

The man, who was tragically burned—whom we’ve come to know as Peter—was taken to the hospital with third-degree burns. Today, he lives with scars that will last the rest of his life. I may have forgotten a few minor details of that day and the days that followed, but I guess some of the things I took away from that event—and the lessons I would soon learn—are still with me to this day.

So, as I finish this story, I would like to leave you with something I remember from that day.

I will always remember the priest, standing in the opening of the crowd, with his head up, looking at the burning building, and his hands raised high above him… “Go in peace, and may God bless you.”