What to do when all you can do is sit

This is a picture of my two oldest boys, then ages five and four, standing in front of the dumpster filled with what was our life.

I printed this and hung it in every bedroom they slept in for years.

I wanted them to remember, I wanted to remember, their smiles.

A few days after the fire, I drove our minivan by the house, pulled in the driveway, and heaved my 39 1/2 weeks pregnant body over the hood of my car, up onto the roof. I sat there and made myself stare into the dumpster. Broken crib slats, glider chair for nursing, the money tree in a yellow pot I’d gotten at a yard sale the week before, so many books, all of the clothes. Everything jumbled together, the things I’d painstakingly selected for our small house, when we moved in, I tried to only keep what I absolutely loved.

I sat on the dented roof of the blue minivan with my children inside, and I took it in.

What do you do when all you can do is sit?

I’ve heard people saying, “Our forefathers went to war for this country and all we are asked to do is stay home.”

Yes, if you’re talking chips and Netflix on the sofa. But to really stay home? To come home to the seat of yourself and stay there?

People spend their whole lives practicing how to sit, how to take it in without moving from the spot.

If I had to choose, I think I would pick the enemy I can fight.

I think I would pick the clear and present danger, action plan, mobilization.

When our fire happened, we had to pull into a driveway because fire engines blocked the road.

Michael parked and ran down the middle of the street. I gave my children to the neighbors we’d never talked to and took off through the woods for some reason, holding my pregnant belly with both hands. When I broke through the clearing, there was the house. Still standing. I’d imagined a pile of wood and ash and composite roof tiles.

I slowed down, heaving, as Michael and the Fire Chief approached. Michael held his Mother’s Bible in his hands, the only thing he’d asked the Fire Chief to rescue after he found out our twelve-year-old red lab Buddy had already died trying to suck air from the crack underneath the front door. They wrapped Buddy up in black trash bags and put him outside under the deck.

I asked if I could go in the house.

The fire was out. The rest of the firemen sat on the side of the road, relaxing after their epic battle.

I crossed the threshold and walked every room, every inch, crunching broken glass under my feet.

I walked the rubble.

I took it in.

I made myself look the fire in the face.

What to do when all you can do is sit?

Stare into the dumpster.

Walk the rubble.

Take it in.

Breathe.