California Fire

The sky was orange even earlier than the sun rose.

At first, I thought it was simply another stunning sunrise over Northern California hills—the sort that makes you stand there, drinking it in. But that soft light was gradually hidden behind thick clouds of smoke, and afterward a dry, crackling noise filled the morning air. And that was when I knew—today would not be a typical day. Today was the day fire came knocking on our door.

My name is Sarah Bennett. In November 2018, I lived in a small town called Paradise, California, with my husband and our two kids, Ellie and Max. Our life was simple but active—an ordinary house, a loyal golden retriever named Scout, and tranquil days. That morning began the same way as any other. By 7 a.m., I was making breakfast, drinking my coffee, and going through the motions of a typical weekday. And then our phones vibrated with an emergency alert.

"Evacuate immediately."

We froze. The gust had already begun, and the whiff of wood smoke was carrying into the house. I hurried inside to get the children ready while my husband stepped outside. What he saw stole his breath—a wall of smoke and flame coming down the ridge, thick and fast, like some unstoppable act of nature.

The fire itself, soon to be infamous as the Camp Fire, moved with ghastly speed. Neighborhoods were engulfed in a few minutes. Flaming blobs were lighting from treetop to treetop, and glowing embers were pouring through the air like sparks from a forge. Sparkling power cables crackled and spat. The sky turned into a smoky twilight, with a strange, apocalyptic light glinting off every surface.

We had mere minutes to get out. I grabbed identification items, a small suitcase full of clothes, bottled water, and Scout. I didn't even think of the photo albums or my grandmother's necklace. We piled into the car and joined the desperate flow of traffic in an attempt to escape. Blazes raged on both sides of the highway. People were crying, clutching animals, horns were blowing, and sirens could be heard in the background.

There is a memory that will forever remain.

Our neighbor, Mr. Dawson, was out in front of his house with a garden hose, desperately trying to wet his roof as the fire enveloped it. He waved us on in a hurry, instructing us to leave there. That was the last that we ever saw of him.

We arrived hours later at a Chico shelter, smeared in soot and smoke. Ellie kept asking, "Is our house okay?" I had no answer. We spent the night on tempo

rary beds, amongst other families like ours—some of whom had fled with nothing, some who had lost loved ones, and most still in shock.

In the days that followed, the report confirmed what we feared—Paradise was lost. Nearly 90% of our town was in shambles. Over 80 people lost their lives. Thousands of homes were reduced to rubble—our home included.

All that was left for us was ourselves.

The loss of the house hurt, but the loss of the little things in it—the memories—hurt more. The Crayola crayon paintings on the fridge. The quilt my mother had stitched together for our wedding. Max's first baby shoes. All turned to ash.

But amidst all that devastation, there was generosity that found its way through. Volunteers arrived with food, clothing, and words of encouragement. Strangers opened their doors. I will never forget the one woman in Redding who gave Ellie a bear and told her, "This is for your new memories." That was the first time I let myself cry.

We had lived in a hotel for months before finally moving into a tiny rented house an hour outside the city. It was not what we wanted, but it gave us a sense of security. The kids resumed school. My husband did manage to get work as part of the recovery effort, and I volunteered for a fire relief organization—helping other families with the same despair and bewilderment that we felt.

Today, almost seven years on, we're building again—brick by brick, breath by breath.

In our new house's front yard, we've planted a small tree. Ellie had called it "Hope."

Fires burn so much down—but they also leave you with a decision: to be broken by loss or to be stronger than it.

We chose to be stronger.

I’m sharing our story not for sympathy, but for the one person out there who might need to hear it: Even if everything is lost, even when it all burns down—you can still begin again.