Brian Maloy

It’s been just over six months since the fire. Sometimes it does hit me that everything is gone and we are untethered. We’ve spent the last week in Colorado, visiting old friends in Colorado Springs, and watching all our little kids become sweet friends, and then exploring in Durango/Vallecito where I spent many happy summers. Even with all the adventures, I think it’s hit me again—we don’t really have a place to go ‘home’ to. In a weird bout of unexpected homesickness, our old house, all our earthly possessions, our sweet dog Sophie, really everything (aside from one another) familiar is gone. So normally while I’d be halfway through a trip and remember how good it is go home, it’s kind of bubbled up this feeling of “well, I guess this is the new normal, the old is truly forever gone, and we are starting over” (Hebrews 11:13–16).

Now do not get me wrong. I am overwhelmingly thankful. The five of us are still alive and together. What makes a “home” is still here: Clara, the kids, and I. We have been shown incredible love by so many friends and family members. Our school communities have been gracious beyond belief. Our restoration company is such a blessing. We have a rental house with many wonderful blessings we’ll likely miss. Still, grief finds us all differently—sometimes without warning, and always on its own timetable (Psalm 34:18). Some of us are better at expressing it than others. Regardless, I think sometimes in the flurry of life after the fire, we don’t always appreciate how much has changed, and how much will continue to change.

Weirdly I kind of wondered a month or two ago when we were getting this trip planned, if slowing down would be good for us, but also hard (for me). It would give a pause in the day to day to reflect on the last six months. Knowing myself, I suspected I would probably get sentimental, nostalgic, and introspective.

While these aren’t bad things, there is certainly a balance (John 16:33). We’ve gone through probably one of the more catastrophic things a family can endure (so I am told), and healing takes time. Over and over, through books, sermons, even seminary lectures, I am reminded that those who follow Jesus are not destroyed by their grief, not consumed by the wrestling that occurs in brokenness (1 Thessalonians 4:13, 2 Corinthians 4:8–9). We aren’t consumed because Jesus is King, He has defeated death, and brought us into NEW life with the Father through the Holy Spirit (Revelation 21:4).

I assume some have read my words over the last few months since the fire and it doesn’t really make sense. But I suspect others read it and understand completely (although maybe different circumstances they’ve endured), they know grief, they know the wrestling in the dark of night, in the calm still moments (Psalm 23, 2 Corinthians 1:3–4). I’ve tried to write occasionally throughout this for a few reasons:

1. That it may give hope to someone else. Perhaps my words (with the help of the Holy Spirit), fit perfectly in the hurt they’re walking through (Romans 12:15).
2. A memory for another day, to look back upon and see God’s faithfulness, His goodness, in the midst of turmoil (Psalm 77:11).
3. A legacy for my kids, maybe even my grandkids, and beyond. Something they can look back, read, and see what the Lord was doing in our family during this strange season (Psalm 78:4).***

In many ways, this whole experience—the fire, the loss, even the beauty of travel and community—has reminded me that I am less and less tethered to this world. Not in a despairing way, but in the quiet recognition that this earth, in all its goodness and grief, is not my final home. The ache for home is ultimately an ache for Him, for the eternal.

“Therefore we do not lose heart, but though our outer man is decaying, yet our inner man is being renewed day by day. For our momentary, light affliction is working out for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison, while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:16-18 LSB)

Truly, I hope my words here aren’t just a reflection—I hope they are a lament, a testimony, and a quiet act of hope. We need real lasting hope in this world, I pray my musings could help stir something in another’s heart — drawing them nearer to the Father in heaven who gives comfort (2 Thessalonians 2:16–17).

So for now, this is my quiet benediction in the middle of rebuilding a life.
After all, “Unless the LORD builds the house, those who build it labor in vain.”
— Psalm 127:1a ESV

Fire Update for the Curious:
The house is town down to the foundation. Sadly we are waiting on St. Louis County (again) for permits to start construction. It will all work out, but it’s starting to feel less and less likely that we’ll move home by Christmas. That is something to pray about for sure. We also surrendered our camper to insurance last week. That was weirdly a hard step, it had been in the garage, and was “fine”, but needed restoration from smoke damage. With two little boys with asthma, we chose not to risk it, but let it go. The cost to restore it was more than it was worth. Eventually we’ll find something new. Otherwise, we remain in Tower House, and we’re all doing well, learning to walk each day in the grace of the Lord in new richer ways.

 ***Legacy: This is something I believe Christian culture has too often forgotten: the value of legacy. In an age where recording, writing, and preserving has never been easier, why not leave behind something meaningful for those who come after us? Like a grandmother handing down cherished recipes, let us pass along memories of Yahweh’s goodness and faithfulness—gifts of hope for those yet to walk their own valleys.