Brian Maloy

I’ve known for a while I needed to write — mostly for myself, to look back at the last 10 months since everything changed — but also because people are curious, and don’t always want to pester or ask. And truthfully, there are some days, I appreciate not having to share the “lack of news” again — but I am never offended when people ask, it is still a way of people remembering us, and caring. So thank you 🙂 

The Day Everything Changed

10 months ago, it was the last week of school before Christmas, the last day before Finals at WCA, and things were happily slowing a bit, knowing Christmas break was coming, Mercifully, it was a day I got home a little early, and it was cool, but not cold, and the kids and I took our favorite fluffy Aussie, Sophie, for a nice walk. This was/is still a cherished family habit, going for long walks in our neighborhood, saying hi to friends, chatting with neighbors, getting some good exercise, getting Sophie out to really enjoy creation. 

Providentially, by God’s grace, we did that before dinner on Dec. 16th. Many days we did it after dinner (with flashlights), or Sophie and I would go after the kids were in bed, so I could pray for our family, pray for our neighbors, and decompress. I know it meant as much to Sophie as it did me. It was sacred. December 15th, after our Sunday School Christmas party, was the last late night walk Sophie and I would take. It was cold, maybe spitting a little, but it was routine, and she’d been stuck at home, so she and I went out — again, thank the Lord we did. Because by the next evening, Monday Dec. 16th, everything would unravel. It would be just a memory of a life lived. 

The Weight of Memory

It’s strange how when tragedy strikes, little details are forever seared into your memory. I can remember the timeline that evening completely, at least up until the fire trucks arrived, then time stood still for a while. I can remember the smells, the evil toxic smell in our house. I can remember the shattered glass, the giant gashes I realized I had later in both my hands. I can still see the sparks in the basement window as I ran around to our bedroom window to try and get to Sophie. I can remember the adrenaline overload driving back from the restaurant, in rush hour traffic, probably breaking laws, trying to get home as quick as possible after our dear neighbor called us in tears. I remember exactly what I was wearing (because they were my only clothes I have from before the fire). 

It is all forever locked away. I remember begging Sophie to come to me from the broken bedroom window, I remember finding a bigger rock to break the sliding glass doors, and standing there pleading with God to help her get safely outside to me. I remember the EMTs (or Firefighters) making me leave the house, and come stand in our neighbor’s yard. I remember Clara getting there, knowing she got the kids safely stowed to a neighbor’s house so they never had to see their home billowing smoke. I remember standing there for hours, watching, praying, knowing that the longer it was until they gave us news of Sophie, the less likely she was alive. I remember rocking back and forth in the dark, watching flames and smoke, and knowing God has a reason for everything, and somehow this was His will. And I remember being broken by it all. I remember having to walk down to the neighbor’s house, and tell the kids that the 6th member of our family, Sophie, our beloved little Aussie, was gone. I can still hear the cries of anguish — the complete picture of the brokenness of this world in my kids’ heartache, and my own. I remember everything. I can’t forget it. I want to remember, and I don’t want to. But in all things, God is good.

Grief and Grace

Grief is a weird thing. How do we wrestle with it, how do we walk in it, without being consumed by it? As most people in life experience grief, we all know, it hits you at different times. I can be completely fine, at peace with everything that has transpired, and then a memory strikes me. For example, just the other day my mother-in-law mentioned scarves, nothing I particularly have an interest in, but it reminded me. It reminded me that when Clara and I began dating, I went to the Holy Land for a few weeks. And while I was in Jerusalem, in the Old City, I haggled with an aggressive vendor (who followed me for probably 3 minutes after I said no…) and got her this beautiful cashmere scarf. It was hanging on her dresser by our bed. I know it’s just a thing, but in a home filled with lots of items full of story and memory — those odd little things hit you, and a weird wash of grief settles over. 

And naturally, you have to shake it off, realize you’re at work (at school) and get back to teaching, or answering student questions as though all is well in the world. It’s strange, and I know most people can relate to this. But walking in grief truly begs you to be consumed by it, broken over and over. 

But I just don’t think that’s really what Jesus died to free us from. 

I mean, the Gospel doesn’t erase grief (I know firsthand), but it does redeem grief. Jesus entered into the full weight of human sorrow, not to bypass it, but to carry it (Isaiah 53:3–4, Hebrews 4:15). Through the cross, He heals the fracture between us and God, yes — but also the fractures within ourselves, between us and others, and even the brokenness we feel in creation itself (Colossians 1:19–20). That scarf, that memory, that gentle ache — they remind me that this world is not as it should be. But they also remind me that Jesus came to make all things new. Not just someday, but even now, in the quiet places where grief meets grace. 

The Mended Wood

I have read this amazing book series with our kids, The Green Ember Series (seriously, check it out — amazing — Green Ember). In that series, the protagonists, rabbits, are constantly embroiled in chaos, setbacks, betrayal, etc. Yet in all those things, there is a quote they repeat often, and I have caught myself saying it more and more in our lives, especially lately. In their quest to see all things made right again, they repeat this encouragement to one another, “It shall not be so in the mended wood”. The “mended wood” is their way of describing when all things are made new, when restoration begins, healing begins. It’s simple and maybe even trite here — but it’s REALLY poetically beautiful. 

This whole season for us, the last 10 months, has been really hard. It has. God is good, He is with us. But it has been hard. My kids sometimes still remember what is lost, their prized items, their memories, their art room downstairs. We went on a hike recently, and there were BIG tears, because I went to the state park we hiked with Sophie last, just 2 weeks before the fire. Even though we took a different trail, driving in the road to the park — it broke my daughter, and in turn, broke my heart. My son recently said, Dad, I am just ready to go home… I know we’re okay, and God is good, but I just want to go home. We have kept our chins up, we have smiled, we have made beautiful new memories. But it has NOT been an easy season to walk. 

It’s been hard too because life goes on, we have jobs, we have ministry, we have teaching, we have sports, we have family, friends, our kids. There is so much to do all the time. And life doesn’t pause for you when you have a “moment” of sadness. Sometimes I lament that, and wish I had a little more margin to reflect on this season. And other days I am grateful for the distraction. I am sure there are pros and cons for each, but also we must do the best we can with what has been given to us, learn to trust the Lord more each day, and walk forward. 

In the end though — we have learned more gratitude, and contentment. We have learned that we are okay. Not because we pulled up by our bootstraps, but because we’ve learned that the Lord really is with us. He is walking with us through the valleys. He shepherds our hearts when we need it. He restores our souls (Psalm 23). After all, it will not be so, in the Mended Wood (Romans 8:22–23, Revelation 21:4–5). 

House Update

Last month, foundation repairs and improvements were made. They repaired the potential cracks, cut egress windows for the basement, reinforced several places, and got footers poured for porches. And this week, 2 days before 10 months — framing began! On the 15th, they completed the sub floors for the whole main level, and the first wall went up right before dinnertime. Today (16th) more walls have risen. We are sincerely grateful. It’s been hard in the waiting at times, wondering if we’ll ever move home — but again, this season is not in vain. I am confident the Lord is using it to grow us as a family, to prepare us for the work we have in the future, and building a deeper trust in Him — helping us to abide more in Him. 

Somewhat humorously, we’ve called our temporary house the “tower house”, and the kids asked what we’ll call our new house — I told them I was thinking Phoenix House, and immediately Rissa got it — and said she loved it, it’s like our house is rising from the ashes. God makes all things new.