Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

My Friend’s House Burned Down: What Should I Say?

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“I’m so sorry.”

It doesn’t seem like much does it?

OK, if you are really hurting for your friend:

“I’m so sorry.”

If it’s an acquaintance and you don’t intend to do anything, that’s it. (And it’s OK to leave it at that. We”ll be getting to “Assignments.”)

A fire is scary and interesting—believe me, I know—but now is not the time to ask questions or share that story about your brother’s, girlfriend’s, uncle’s house fire, especially in front of your friend’s children. If your friend’s fire has brought up your own fears about fire, or experiences with trauma and loss, I’m so sorry and that would be a good thing to keep under your hat or wait to share with another friend. Personally I am a long talking over-sharer, so no judgment, but let’s aim higher.

If you really want to do something say:

“I’d like to bring you something. Is there someone organizing things?”

If you plan to give your friend money, just hand it to her. Write a check or go to your bank and take out some cash.

The day of our fire, when my husband and I came back to talk to the investigator, we were constantly interrupted by people stopping to express concern. It was great or terrible, depending on the person.

One lady, who lives about a mile away and was in a Bible study with my sister years before, hopped out of her car and handed me a bank envelope full of money. She briefly told me who she was, said she was so sorry, handed me the envelope and ran back to her car. She was there all of ten seconds. It was weird, we both felt awkward and it was the nicest thing in the world.

If you do this and your friend/acquaintance says, “We’re fine. We have good insurance.” You say:

“Oh I’m so glad. I really want you to have this.”

If your friend/acquaintance has it together enough to just say, “Thank you” you say:

“You’re welcome.”

It really isn’t so much what we say—in the early days, especially—it’s what we decide to keep to ourselves, and what we do that makes the difference.

I’ll tell you what not to say tomorrow.

Mourning before Easter

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Eden’s sick.

It started this afternoon with some bumps on her forehead that began to itch. Soon her whole face was red, inflamed and her head was hot.

I don’t know if she is having an allergic reaction to something she touched outside or if she has a virus.

Paul carried her up to bed and I tucked her in.

We talked about the video we watched earlier and how much we love it. We talked about Jesus and what he did for us. 
“It’s just so amazing and beautiful.” she said, yawning and turning to her side, snuggling in.
I stroked her hair, “It is, your’e right.”
“But it’s sad too.”

And then she began to cry about the new house, about how building it we lost so many of the trees that made it through the fire. In particular we lost the climbing tree, a large maple, that stood in the middle of our front yard.

“I was just getting tall enough to climb it, but I never got to.” She cried and I cried with her.

We talked about all the trees that were lost, some to the fire and others when we broke ground for the new house, despite our every effort to save them all. It is especially painful to have lost so much, to take stock of what remains, and then to lose that too. For Eden, losing her garden and the trees was  deep sorrow.

We talked about mourning, how the Bible says that blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted.

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

We talked about what mourning looks like: letting God know that you’ve been let down and telling him how that makes you feel. It’s also choosing to hope. I encouraged Eden to pray for a climbing tree.

“Mom, I know all the trees. I walk through our woods almost every single day.”

But we prayed and asked.

Please pray for my girl.

New Growth

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It’s a peculiar experience walking through the ruins of your home.
This is the floor of my study about two months after the fire. It was one of the rooms on the first floor hardest hit. The roof burned away and the ceiling was on the floor. The knotty pine paneling had been charred or eaten away by flames, but so many parts of the room were intact, almost burned beyond recognition, but there still.
The weeks before the fire I was working on a book proposal. In the ruins you could see books I was referencing as well as pieces of a friend’s proposal I was using as a model. It was so strange to stand in that room, that no longer had a roof and walls, but to see paper that survived.

I had the study one week.  We had shuffled around the bedrooms to create room for it.  The girls moved in together and Paul and I traded with them, moving into a smaller room that had been Lydia’s and changed Eden’s into the study.  All the bedrooms we redid, repainting the walls and replacing the floors.  Everything was fresh and new.  The week before the fire Paul and my brother-in-law, David moved in my old oak desk, that was a little too big, but I was using until I found something I liked better.  Days before the fire they moved in the sofa that I knew would be a place for Paul and some of the kids to lounge.

The day before the fire I was planning the bookshelves for the hundreds of books that were stacked in the hall and dining room, waiting to move in.

There is a small study, also on the northwest corner of the new house.  Since we moved it has been the dumping ground of all our records, supplies for Eden’s home school and everything related to the build.  A few months ago I made some semblance of order but during the holidays it became the gift staging area and a new mess.

One of my excuses is that I have been homeschooling Eden and need to find a desk or table big enough for both of us to sit beside each other.  I haven’t found one that pleased me, so we’ve been doing school at the island or the couch, which is fine, but we’re constantly schlepping her books and notebooks around.

Today was the breaking point.  It wasn’t dramatic, I just hit a wall.  I’m working on a new project which means a new proposal and I need to spread out some papers and make room for a stack of books.  I need a desk.  I have a small, antique library desk that my brother-in-law lent me, but it’s not comfortable  and doesn’t afford a lot of space.

Never mind that.

I cleared it off and Christopher helped me move it in front of a window.  There are still baskets full of records that need to be sorted and piles of papers too, but this is it.   I’m claiming this space.  I’m writing in and through the mess.

More Fire Etiquette

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On another occasion I divided  the people who gather to help after a tragedy: “those you are glad they have rushed to your aid and those you would rather remained home…the first group are all a variety of heroes and champs, but the second group can be further broken down into stupid people with good intentions and the gaggle of morons, dopes and jugheads.”


Oh Lord, spare us the stupid people with good intentions!  


I actually prayed this when my father was dying his long and terrible death.  If anyone told me he was in a better place I didn’t know how I could resist throwing a punch and I didn’t want to be brawling at my father’s funeral.


Having a child with special needs had laid me open to the SPWGI.  My tactic then was to just shake my head and with it try to shake off the ridiculous things that were said.  I was merciful because I was reminded of the stupid things I had said, with the BEST of intentions to others.


Tip #1: if someone you know has received a challenging diagnosis for a child don’t say “If any mother/father/parents can handle this, you (two) can!”  Just trust me, don’t.  It isn’t helpful.


A couple weeks ago I attended Paul’s work Christmas party and we had a great time.  Paul works with some really wonderful people.  We stayed almost until the end.  Most of our friends had left, but one couple, Rick and Jane remained.  Paul and Rick were talking with another co-worker and Jane and I were chatting on our own.  Their children are grown and I like to pick Jane’s brain.  A third woman sidled up to us and gestured at the men.  


“My husband has those guys cornered and I’ve been looking around, figuring there has to be a couple women stranded like I am.”  Jane and I stood politely listening.  You know when you are interrupted and caught off guard and don’t know exactly what another person is going to do?   There is that suspension of animation and the underlying tension as you don’t know what’s coming next.


“May I join you?”  This woman asked.


Of course, of course.  Jane and I both smiled and turned slightly to open ourselves.  The woman leaned forward and touched Jane’s arm, “I’m so sorry about your house…about the fire.”


It’s subtle, but something in Jane relaxed and I stood at attention.  This was mine.  Crap.


“That was my house.”  I said.


The woman shifted to face me.  “Oh my gosh!  My kids and I drive by your house all the time and the first time we saw it – oh my gosh – they were so upset!  It was unbelievable!  Terrible!”


I can’t tell you how many people have told me, in detail, the trauma of seeing our house.  This has been a long hard road and some time last Spring, for the sake of my children, I stopped suffering fools.  If my kids were with me, I cut people off.  


It was just me, so I listened, but I wasn’t leaning in.  I stayed open, but I wasn’t going to make it easy, I wasn’t going to play along, if that makes any sense.  I wasn’t going to accommodate, but I listened.


Apparently, our fire had been very traumatic for her four, young children.  All of them were very concerned for my kids and, at various times, our situation was discussed and they prayed for us.  


“I don’t think you can know how far reaching this was for so many other families.”  The woman said and I agreed.


She described how talking about my children losing all their belongings had enabled her family to talk about possessions and priorities and more than once she used our fire to shame her kids into gratitude.


“So it’s sort of a silver lining, I hope, to your tragedy, how far and deeply it touched others.”


Tip #2:  You get to define your own silver linings; don’t interpret them for others.


I told her that this can be redemptive and asked her to thank her children for praying and to please continue.


The truth is we are connected and we can be deeply affected by and learn profound things through the suffering of strangers, but here’s the thing:  if it’s not your gig, keep it under your lid…or at least wait until you’re sober to share.





One of Job’s Comforters Was Right

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“Give in to God, come to terms with him 


and everything will turn out just fine.


Let him tell you what to do; 


take his words to heart.


Come back to God Almighty 


and he’ll rebuild your life.


Clean house of everything evil. 


Relax your grip on your money 


and abandon your gold-plated luxury.


God Almighty will be your treasure, 


more wealth than you can imagine.”

Job 22: 21 – 25 from The Message


This year has been one long haul of abandonment to God’s provision in every way and on every level. Paul and I have been stretched beyond ourselves in so many ways. As I stood and watched my house burn I thought “I can take this.” I was talking about the loss. And I was right. With the exception of my kids’ art, some journals, a few paintings and some books, I haven’t missed a thing and never looked back. If not for my children and trying to salvage things that were evocative of home I would have gladly walked away and never given most things a second thought.

What I could not understand as I watched the flames destroy all our possessions was that the rebuilding was where it would all come into play: all my beliefs, fears, trust, faith, doubt and strength.

The Bible compares life to a race that we are running. Watching my house burn, losing my possessions was like being dropped into a 5K. If we are speaking metaphorically I knew I could run that race and at the sound of the gun I started running. “This doesn’t hurt. I can take this.” I told myself. In a way I had already trained for that. Losing every thing? No problem.

What became difficult was as the months passed and the 5K became a marathon and then it turned into an Iron Man and then it was more like the Olympics and Paul and I were signed up for several simultaneous events. Making every single financial decision from how big of a house to build down to what type of spatula to buy while under mental and emotional duress has been so challenging. Making every single decision while waiting for insurance to come through and not really knowing how much every thing is going to cost has been excruciating. A rebuild is not a build; things have to be torn down.

God has been showing me the rickety structures that I have used for shelter: being fiscally prudent, careful, living within our means – all good practices, but God is a jealous God and he won’t let us settle for less than abandonment to him and his provision. I think I want grace but it seems risky, it involves too much trust. So I see now.

I have also been learning a lot about how we choose or refuse to comfort each other. It is uncomfortable to just be with someone. Our urge is to fix, to remove obstructions, to placate. But somethings cannot be fixed or removed or placated, they must be born, endured.

A true friend is one who will be with you in the uncertainty, who will sit with you in the mystery of and the suffering itself.

If someone glides in and blithely says “You’re going to be fine” we reject that. But isn’t that what we really want to know? Am I going to be alright? Is everything going to be OK?

We don’t need bland assurance – we see right through that – what we need is someone who has been through the fire and who can tell us everything is going to turn out just fine.