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Up on the winding mountain,
there is a structure we knew so well— 
now consumed by red, devoured in flame. 
It was our shelter, a meeting place 
of like minds, a refuge against life’s weight, 
a place where joy lingered in laughter 
and shared moments. 
Now it is gone. 

Santa Ana winds howl, 
their bestial breath feeding flames 
that leap and ravage and rage, 
consuming all in their path. 
The canyon is cloaked in smoke, 
its trails swallowed whole, 
its heart turned to ash. 

I think of you, Eaton Canyon— 
picnic tables beneath sycamore groves, 
the air thick with pine and sage, 
the sharp scent of chaparral and yucca. 
Squirrels scurrying, tiny hands 
clutching crumbs. 
A sign read, “Don’t feed the squirrels!” 
but they always found a way, 
clever and bold, to take what was theirs. 

And just down the road, 
the church where I spent my childhood— 
a simple brown and red brick building 
with a slanted roof. 
Its doors stood open,
where kind voices rose in prayer, 
where friendships grew 
beneath comforting lights. 

I climbed the green hills outside, 
where children ran free, 
the laughter of our games 
echoing against the bricks. 

I remember the hailstorm after service, 
how I stood, amazed, watching the hail 
dance and slide down the roof— 
each tiny crystal a fleeting moment of wonder, 
bouncing off shingles, 
skittering across the wet fragrant ground. 
I was young, and it felt like a game, 
the storm a fleeting spectacle— 
ice tumbling in rhythm with the rain. 

We shared meals—we shared stories, 
our lives braided together 
like the trees that shaded us. 

Now, those memories ache— 
the sanctuary of warmth and welcome, 
the songs and shared meals, 
reduced to embers and silence. 

I grieve for the loss— 
for homes consumed, 
for lives altered by the fire’s reach, 
for all that was once good and whole. 

I hold them close in my heart, 
my tears yearning for respite
only God can give. 

But I will carry these places with me— 
the wildflowers by the trail, 
the shade of trees that once cradled us, 
the laughter of kind souls, 
the hymns that rose to the heavens, 
and the strong scent of wild sage— 
even as the fire claims it all, 
it cannot truly erase. 


-

My heart aches for those affected by the fires sweeping through Los Angeles. In this loss, I reflect on the places that shaped me—the trails, the trees, the laughter, and the moments of connection. While flames may consume what we see, the essence of these places can never be erased.
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