DARREL CARSON
It got dusty in May this year, even while there was still snow beside the road in the shady places. There we’d be, driving past the last of the spring snow while watching plumes of dust in the rearview mirror.
“I’ve never seen it this dry,” I’d say to Vera. We had already had several fires, long before fire season was official. All of June and into July, we’d been watching things dry up—needles on the trees turning brown, and the woods getting shut down early, ending firewood cutting. Nobody, not even the old-timers, had ever seen anything like it. The days and nights were hot, dry, and dusty. The dust was like talcum powder, swirling in great cyclones reaching to the sky. Dust was in our eyes, in our nostrils, and in our hair.
There was a fire in late June that was way too close, and in just a short time there was a column of smoke rising into the sky high over our heads. In just a few short hours, thankfully, four aerial tankers and six or eight helicopters knocked it down, but the fear of fire remained. Temperatures soared into the high 90’s—a good 20 degrees hotter than the norm for that time of year—and then there was the wind. Every afternoon it sucked the last bit of moisture out of everything.
If there was a bright side to all this, it was the fact that it was too dry for mosquitos to breed, but if the truth were told, I’d rather have the mosquitos.
If there was a bright side to all this, it was the fact that it was too dry for mosquitos to breed, but if the truth were told, I’d rather have the mosquitos.
Then, on July six, Vera and I were coming home from town. As we topped the last hill, there was a column of smoke that seemed to be just beyond our place. We saw no aerial tankers or helicopters, and the width of the smoke column seamed to grow exponentially as we watched. Soon air support was making trip after trip, dropping load after load of water and fire retardant, but it all appeared to be in vain because soon the entire sky to the north was nothing but billowing smoke.
Vera and I drove home and prayed, “Lord, we ask that you put a stop to this fire in Jesus’s name if it is Your will. But whatever else may happen, we just ask that Your name be glorified.” And with that we started packing what we could, getting ready to be told to evacuate and leave all the rest behind.
When bedtime came, Vera and I went to sleep trusting God to take care of us but also knowing that this fire was close enough that we could very well be burned out by morning if the north wind blew. Of course, I knew that in the summer, north wind at night is not normal, but what about this year had been normal? I couldn’t trust normal, but I could trust God.
Bigger Concerns
In the morning it hurt to breath; the inversion had brought the smoke right to the ground, and it was thick, orange, and dark; the sun was no more than an amber disk in the sky. We filled the back of the Jeep with non-replaceable items and hooked the sawmill to the hitch, and we were off, headed for our daughter-in-law’s in Bonanza. I could only trust that I would be allowed back into the subdivision when I returned.
The days of the next week blended together. We were prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Our nerves were taut, but not just because of the fire. We realized we had bigger concerns than the real possibility that our property could go up in smoke: we had unsaved family members that we had spent time with the day before the fire started. We prayed more for them than we did for our own safety.
As we waited we made more trips to Bonanza with the four-wheeler carrying more personal items, and our daughter-in-law also loaded her car as full as she could and helped us haul. We prayed as we worked, interceding for people who were in the direct path of the fire.
The people in the Sycan Estates near us lost everything. Why were we spared and they were not?
The people in the Sycan Estates near us lost everything. Why were we spared and they were not? The Bootleg Fire, as it was named, had started only about seven miles to our north, but it came to within four miles of us as it fanned southeast, consistently devouring four to six miles a day.
Rain was what we really needed, and we all prayed without ceasing that God would send some. In church on Sunday we prayed for rain even as Vera and I moved ahead with our plans to be baptized in the river the following week. It was hot in church as they announced our baptism. The ceiling fans only seemed to blow the stifling dry air around the room, but the words of Pastor Ron brought hope to our hearts. Somehow, we knew that Jesus was with us and was still sovereign in spite of the fact that many of us were getting tired of “camping”, living out of suitcases in our own homes.
As the next week passed, the sky around Sprague River became less smokey, and we could see the pyrocumulus clouds being formed by the fire every afternoon and evening. Family was asking if they should still plan to come for our baptism, and we said, “Yes, it looks as if the fire is moving on, and we are in less danger. If anything changes, we’ll let you know.”
The Grace of Rain
On Sunday after church we all headed for the river. Vera and I were baptized along with several others, and I will never forget holding Vera’s hand while the cool, refreshing water flowed over our faces. If you imagine that the water must have felt good on that hot, dry, dusty and smokey day, just think how good the reality felt! My sins had been washed away; I was buried with Jesus in baptism and raised to newness of life in Him. Everything, and I mean everything, is under His control, even the pyrocumulus clouds we could see in the distance.
The next week things started to move more toward normal. Our evacuation level was down-graded as the danger lessoned. Neighbors brought their horses home, and we went to Bonanza and retrieved a couple of loads. At church on Sunday, Pastor Ron taught verse by verse through Psalm 37 which declares that God is ultimately in control, and we can rest in that assurance.
I went right out and danced in the rain—that’s what I did!
Then, on Tuesday morning just as it was getting light, it happened: I heard rain. I rushed outside in my pajama bottoms and slippers intending to stand on the porch and watch the rain fall, but I couldn’t help myself. I went right out and danced in the rain—that’s what I did! I watched little puffs of dust rise as each drop of precious rain hit the parched ground, but as I watched, the puffs succumbed to the ever-faster downpour, and I sang in the rain the words of Joseph Larson:
“It’s beginning to rain!
Hear the voice of the Father,
Saying, ‘Whosoever will come drink of this water.
I have promised to pour My Spirit out
On your sons and your daughters.
If you’re thirsty and dry,
Look up to the sky,
It’s beginning to rain.’”
The words of the prophet Isaiah also came to my mind:
“For I will pour water on him who is thirsty, And floods on the dry ground; I will pour My Spirit on your descendants, And My blessing on your offspring; They will spring up among the grass Like willows by the watercourses (Isaiah 44:3,4).
I was getting wet, and I didn’t care. It just felt so good! The lightning flashed and the roar of the thunder was deafening.
I came back inside rejoicing. We got a half inch of rain that day, and it gave some relief for the fire fighters. We still need more, but as the song says, “The silent clouds above are beginning to gather.” Our good God has enough water to meet all our needs, both physical and spiritual. I can’t help but praise His Holy Name.
Epilogue
The Bootleg Fire started from a lightning strike on July 6, 2021, about 10 miles from Darrel’s home in Sprague River, Oregon. On July 19 it merged with the Log Fire. By August 6 it had burned 413,765 acres, and at its fastest growth in mid-July, it expanded about 1,000 acres per hour. It is the third-largest fire in the history of Oregon since 1900, and it became the second-largest wildfire in the United States of the 2021 fire season. By the time it was fully contained on August 15, it had burned 408 buildings, 342 vehicles, and several hundred square miles in Klamath and Lake counties were under evacuation orders. The smoke from this fire caused haze and red sunrises and sunsets as far away as Boston and New York City (Sources: Wikipedia and Darrel Carson).
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