Dear Neighbors,

Fire and gratitude. These two words now define my days. Two words intimately woven together - until now, a foreign composition.

I am shocked to hear myself telling this story out loud, a story now permanently mine. Shock is a fascinating human experience, with it’s natural anesthesia that protects you from sudden and crushing pain. It floats you through tragedy like a curious observer. Emerging from the haze, you find you’ve forgotten details but remember what matters.

And what matters is this: a fire that swept up belongings, but did not touch souls. A family who saw the grace of God through strangers. Children who witnessed a vast sea of kindness rising then crash in a great wave to drown the memory of flames.

From the moment we saw fire flickering from the home we spent a year building, the past few months unpacking, and a lifetime dreaming of, we were never alone. People whose names we learned just two months before, just two hours before, scooped our children off the ground where they lay sobbing, grabbed our hands and our faces and told us all that mattered was the cherished family in front of us.

After a sleepless night that allowed no chance to wake and say ‘was that a dream?’ I thought: “I cannot do this day.”

But then.

We find breakfast that filled the kitchen of our sudden hosts, food they made and still others delivered. An abundance. More than we could ever eat, an excess of grace poured upon us. In the span of hours, neighbors became family and strangers became dear friends.

You gave us the courage to smile and shake off terror, the wisdom to remind our children that ‘what ifs’ are no more real than fairy tales. How can we say thank you for the endless tide of kindness that has not stemmed?

Here is what YOU have done for our family, here is what our children have learned about YOU through this tragedy.

This is what we have to thank 40+ (and counting) of you for:

Pouring out of your homes in PJs to hug us.
Lining up to invite us to stay with you, describing extra bedrooms and well-thought out strategies of where to put our children to sleep.
Brightening up smoky darkness with flashlights and optimistic engineering and construction knowledge.
Picking up shoes I ran out of to get home, repeatedly giving me new shoes because I kept forgetting where I left the last pair I borrowed.
Being the crowd of mothers who surrounded my little boy when he said “take me away, I don’t want to watch it burn.”
Tucking our children into your own welcoming beds, finding extra blankets and pillows and clothes for us to sleep in, hanging dress selections (new with tags on) in the guest room closet
Dropping off bags full of toothpaste and toothbrushes, notepads, scissors, pens, shampoo, razors, snacks, scissors, drinks, individually packed Ziplock bags full of items thoughtfully selected for their usefulness.
Knowing when to back off, when to push forward, what to say, what not to say.
Flooding us with messages and calls every moment since - from the newest of friends, to strangers up and down the streets of this lovely neighborhood.
Pouring fresh coffee and sitting silently beside us.
Throwing extra dryer sheets in with our smoky clothes, giving a thumbs up after the smell test.
Reminding us to ignore ill-intended speculation and rest in the proven truth that we of course did not light a firework and accidentally burn our new home nor did an errant firework land upon it.
Picking up our mail, opening windows, locking doors, climbing the attic stairs, going under the house, saying ‘it’s not that bad!’
Filling up your cars with our belongs to store at your homes.
Sending housing leads, calling friends of friends, casting a net far and wide for us.
Delivering fresh fruit salad and hamburgers, not taking no for an answer, teaching us to accept help and to just say yes.
Cutting our grass, unasked, in 90 degree heat.
Calling out from golf carts as you pass by “let us know what we can do!”

And thank you most of all for stopping in the street during the fire to pray, “let it stop there, God. No more. No farther.”

This was my prayer, too. Please God, let it stop there. Save this dream of ours, for these children of ours. As I held my sons’ hands and prayed with them in the midst of this moment, I asked them, “Do you believe?” Tearstained and shaking, they all said “Yes, yes we believe.”

This is no ordinary grace. And Chapel Ridge is no ordinary place. Through the kaleidoscope of names and faces who surrounded us with care, we saw the face of God. And upon the doorframe of our home, we read His words. During construction, we wrote different verses throughout our home. This verse was inscribed on the doorframe where the fire was ultimately held at bay.

As I continued to sift through images later, refreshing my memory on what specific verses we placed in each room, I found I had written this same scripture on the doorframe to the upstairs media room - where the children were when the fire broke out. No other verses were repeated, and I did not repeat this one intentionally at the time. Two doorways that declared an identical blessing over precious lives.

Today, we signed a lease for a home in Chapel Ridge and will be moving "home" again tomorrow while we rebuild. We are humbled. And because of all of you, we have passed through fire into grace and gratitude.

And our story continues.

Love,

Your neighbors

Heather & John

Aidan, Max and Alexander

Hohenwarter

HEATHER KELLY

Dear Neighbors,

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