Fire
How photographs of loved ones—both living and deceased—emerged from the ashes to reveal what truly matters.
The Photos That Survived
On the morning of January 7, 2025, my husband called me at the gym in a panic.
“Come home now! There’s a fire in the hills right above our house. It’s spreading fast.”
Fortunately, I was already in the car running errands, so I headed straight home.
We had no idea how the next hours, days, and months would unfold.
The Pacific Palisades fire became one of the worst disasters in California history. Our home, most of our neighbors’ homes, every school, church, park, library, and much of the town were destroyed.
Our life as we knew it—and our children’s childhoods—were suddenly gone.
And we were powerless to stop it.
Having evacuated before, we initially packed lightly, assuming we would be gone for a night or two. But this time, we could see the flames.
So we grabbed documents, computers, a few paintings, photographs, and the dog.
In the end, we were among the lucky ones. Many of our friends never made it back home.
Twelve people lost their lives, devastatingly, although we all knew the toll could have been far worse given how many people were trapped during the evacuation.
“Why Didn’t You Save Us?”
Several months later, I felt strong enough to resume my monthly Zoom class with Carm and the mediums she continued to help train and practice with.
As usual, at the beginning of class, she had us meditate to open our chakras and our minds—to let our spirit guides in and allow any other souls who wanted to reach out to make contact.
I had been doing okay lately. I no longer burst into tears every time someone mentioned the fires.
But when I closed my eyes to meditate, all I saw was fire.
I tried repeatedly, but all I could see was fire.
Then I became angry.
Angry at those who had gone before me because, in my grief, I felt as though they had allowed this to happen. They had done nothing to save us from the devastation, trauma, and financial and emotional ruin.
“Why didn’t you save us?” I asked angrily.
When meditation ended, I remained quiet.
Carm had been updating the class about my situation, the fires, and the loss of our home, and I could tell everyone was hoping to hear from me.
Eventually, I described what had happened during meditation.
When I said, “Why didn’t they stop this from happening?” I burst into tears.
Graciously, my classmates spent much of the rest of the evening helping me unpack what I was feeling and process my grief.
Then something happened that I could never have anticipated.
The Message
Someone sent my husband a text saying they had found photographs at the site of our burned home and wanted to return them to us.
The message said the photographs had been found by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which had been hired to help clear the lots.
We couldn't imagine how photographs could have survived.
We had already visited the property ourselves in full hazmat gear and gone through the rubble. We had found very few belongings of consequence.
We assumed the message was spam.
Then we received a second text.
The next day, I drove to Pacific Palisades to retrieve the photographs.
A weary but friendly gentleman handed me a stack of badly damaged pictures in a dirty, mud-stained plastic bag.
Trying to hide my disappointment, I thanked him profusely—not only for returning the photographs, but for everything they were doing for the fire victims.
I looked at the photograph on top of the stack.
And there was my Uncle Joe, who had passed away just two months earlier from old age.
Standing beside him, I could barely make out my cousin, several years younger than me, who had died during COVID after suffering a heart attack when his heart surgery had been postponed because the hospital lacked space.
The rest of the photograph was too damaged to identify anyone else.
I couldn't tell where or when it had been taken.
I put the dirty plastic bag into the clean bag the Army Corps had given me and placed the stack in the trunk of my car.
There it remained for two days.
One Photograph at a Time
Finally, when I had the time and presence of mind, I opened the stack.
Gingerly, I began prying one photograph away from another, hoping not to cause any additional damage.
Photo after photo revealed another person I had lost.
Then another.
And another.
Eventually, I realized what I was holding.
They were my wedding photographs from the early 1990s.
All of those we had lost since then—my mother, two of her siblings and their spouses, Scott's father, stepmother, sister, and my cousin—were clearly visible throughout the photographs.
One deceased relative after another appeared.
Only a handful of those still living were visible.
It was shocking.
Poignant.
Beautiful.
And somehow, profoundly meaningful.
I couldn't ignore it.
I had been angry because I felt abandoned. I had asked why those who had gone before us had not stopped this from happening.
I knew, rationally, that they were not in control of the fire and could not have prevented what happened.
But seeing those photographs gave me something I didn't know I needed:
confirmation that they had not abandoned us.
The Photograph That Changed Everything
About fifteen photographs into the stack, I had seen very few people who were still living.
Then I uncovered a barely recognizable photograph of Scott and me.
I gasped.
There was my wedding gown.
Until that moment, I hadn't realized that my wedding dress had also been lost in the fire.
In the photograph, Scott and I were standing at the altar of the church.
We had just been pronounced husband and wife.
And we were kissing.
I thought long and hard about why that photograph had survived.
And eventually, I understood.
It is the love that matters.
Not the house.
Not the wedding gown.
Not the possessions.
Not the things we spend years accumulating and believing we need to preserve forever.
Love.
That is what remains.
I realized how incredibly fortunate I am to have love in my life—with my husband, my children, my extended family, and my friends.
The fire took so much from us.
But it did not take that.
And perhaps that is why those photographs found their way back to me.
They reminded me of where I came from, who walked beside me, who loved me, and who remains part of my story.
Now, when I get down, I try to remember that photograph.
That kiss.
My family.
My friends.
And the photographs of every soul who is in my camp.
Because sometimes, when everything else has been taken away, we discover what was most important all along.
Love is what remains.
