Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

I don’t consider myself to be an emotional guy, although, the years, and to an extent, life,  have definitely softened me.  It’s not that I was ever hardened, or at least I don’t think I was.  I’m just definitely not one to wear emotion on my sleeve.

Part of that thick skin, I believe, is due to my experiences on the Fire Department.  I don’t think one would last for more than a day on the job if you let things really get to you.  You see too much.  Experience too much.  Pain, tragedy, loss, hurt, and then other times joy, relief and even humour; a spectrum of thoughts, sights, and emotions as vast as the clear blue sky.

For all the shows on television, there is only one – has only been one – that truly touches me each time I watch it.  In the span of 60 minutes my heart can break as the story begins and then leap as it ends.  My eyes can glisten with tears in one moment, and sparkle with joy in the next.  I ache from the depths of human tragedy and suffering, and then become inspired by a willingness and ability to move mountains that previously stood in the way of healing.

In my opinion, Extreme Makeover Home Edition is among the best that television has to offer simply for the fact that it’s not about me.  What I mean to say is, it’s not about self.  Television tends to be self oriented.  Game Shows about winning me big money.  Reality Shows about me winning a competition.  Sit-coms and Dramas about the pursuit of self gratification – success, wealth, sex – me… me… me.  Not me personally mind you, but me in the sense of self.

Extreme Makeover, on the other hand, is all about somebody else.  It’s about taking a tragedy, taking a loss, taking pain, taking struggles, and doing what otherwise may not be able to be done on our own.  Beating the odds.  It’s about families, friends, neighbours, and entire communities coming together for a common goal… to serve!  My heart warms just thinking about it.

I know the show has it’s critics, and I know some question it’s extravagance – though I believe it’s been toned down over the years – but all else aside, you can’t question the motives.  To change lives.  To help people.  To provide second chances.  To make the impossible, possible.  In it’s purest, simplest form… to serve.

Each week I watch the show and wish I could be a part of it.  What a joy it must be to volunteer with the show for a week.  This week, in the middle of a brutal Texas heat wave where the temperature never dropped below 100F, people kept their eye on the goal… to serve.  They cast aside their own comfort.  They worked through their own pain.  They gave their time, their effort, their energy, their blood, sweat and tears, and they did it, not for their own personal gain, but for somebody else.

This week at work somebody handed me the Future Shop flyer.  They know I enjoy browsing through it.  Wishful thinking mostly.  As the flyer was placed on the desk I joked that I shouldn’t be looking at it because it will just make me want to spend money.  The individuals response was, “well isn’t that why you work?  To make money so you can spend it on yourself?”

I thought a lot about that statement.  It made me a little sad, if I’m being honest, because it really is a reflection of the way so much of society thinks.  It’s all about me.  Things for me.  For my entertainment.  For my joy.  For my pleasure.  Sum up commom thinking in a single word… me.

It’s great to watch a show like Extreme Makeover Home Edition and be inspired.  We should be inspired!  But inspiration isn’t enough.  Thoughts are nice.  Words can be well meaning.  Actions, though, are real!  They’re love in motion.

I will likely never be on a team that builds a house in 7 days; but I could volunteer for Habitat For Humanity.  I will likely never solve world hunger; but I can make a donation to my local food bank.  I may never save a child from poverty; but I can sponsor one through World Vision.  I may never save a life; but I can touch one.

Do something this week for somebody else, with no expectation of return.  Do something that doesn’t invole “me”.

A Facebook friend posted this on her status on Thursday,

(name removed) is pondering life… 6 years ago tomorrow at noonish (name removed) and I were in an major car accident and shockingly lived through it. It all happened because some young gals were excited about the first day of summer break and hurrying to get to the beach and missed a stop sign. It always makes me see how easy it all could be gone! Life is short.

Reading that one simple post brought back a rush of emotion for me.  In that moment, I relived every detail of Thursday June 26, 2003.  That day remains my toughest day as a firefighter.  A day that I suspect I will never remove from my memory.

It started with a call for a 24 year old male possible VSA (vital signs absent).  I was 24.  When we arrived on scene we found a young man, lifeless, the result of a freak accident.  While placing a ladder to the side of his barn, a strong gust of wind caught it and carried it into high voltage lines.  We began CPR immediately, though we knew there was nothing we could do to bring this young man back.  “He’s too young.  This could be me!”  As I switched off between compressions and respiration’s, those were the only two thoughts in my mind.  I tried to distract myself by counting off my motions out loud.  It wasn’t working.

I was doing OK until his parents showed up.  That is when my heart broke, not once, but twice.  Once at the mothers realization that her son was gone, and again when when the father looked head on into the same tragic reality.

As we turned the scene over to Police and EMS something happened that almost never happened at my old station.  We got a second call.  Without time to process what just unfolded.  Without a moment to catch my breath from experience I just had, we were racing back into action.

This time the call was a 2 vehicle MVC just up the road from where we were.  We arrived on scene to find one car on it’s roof in the field, against a large steel culvert that ran under the road.  The second vehicle was a good distance away in the field and it was mangled quite severely.  It was evident that extrication was going to be required.

I was assigned to medical on the vehicle in the field.  It was filled with girls who were on their way to the beach.  Certainly this is not how they expected to spend their day.  I didn’t know it at the time, but the other vehicle was driven by a girl I had gone all through school with.

I remember every detail.  From the moment we arrived on scene until the moment I assisted with loading one of the girls into the air ambulance, and we cleared the scene when both vehicles had been removed and the hydro pole that had snapped like a toothpick had been replaced.

The next night I was scheduled to speak at a youth event at my church.  I was a Youth Pastor at the time.  The idea of standing up in front of a hundred plus people was agonizing enough, withouth having to do it while still processing everything I had done the day before.  One of the things I always did was write a handout that I would give to all my kids.  I was a teen once… I know teens are easily distracted and have short attention spans.  I also know they never have a good answer when their parents ask them what the message was on.  So I figured a handout was something tangible.  They could take it, read it, or just toss it on the kitchen table when they got home.  This is the handout I wrote 6 years ago.  Thanks to my grandma and my mom, I was able to get a copy of it.

Thursday June 26th was a tough day for me and for many others.

My day started by responding to a medical call for a 24 year old unconscious male.

When I arrived on scene I found a young man, the same age as me, laying on the ground dead as a result of electrocution.  We started CPR immediately, and I managed to keep myself composed through the entire ordeal.  God has blessed me with the ability to be calm in intense situations like that.

After the paramedics arrived I had an opportunity to step back and what I saw next broke my heart.  I saw the young man’s mothers standing in the yard staring at her son whom she’d never have the opportunity to talk to again.  I kept my composure though.

Then something else happened.  The unsuspecting Father pulled into the driveway.  As the mother, his wife ran across the driveway towards his vehicle my heart broke again.  This mother was running to her husband to tell him that he too would never have the opportunity to talk to his son again.

I’ve been on the Fire Department for nearly 3 years, and death is something that I’ve had to deal with many times.  But on this particular day, it hit a little closer to home for me because this man I was doing CPR on was the same age as me.

So why am I telling you?  I’m telling you this because when that young man’s parents got out of bed in the morning, I’m confident that the thought of losing their son was nowhere in their mind.  But just a few short hours later it was a reality they were being forced to deal with.

We have no idea when God is going to call us home.  For some it could be 5, 10, 20 or 50 years.  For others, it could be a matter of days, weeks or months.

All I know for sure is that, that young man’s parents will never have a chance to tell their son they love him again.  You have a gift that they no longer do.  As soon was you’re done reading this, go hug your teen(s) and tell them you love them!

Ever since I was a little kid, I can remember wanting to grow up and be a fireman.  Then again, is there any little boy that hasn’t dreamed the same dream at least once?  Probably not.  Big, bright red trucks, hoses spraying water, a cool costume, shiny toys, lots of noise.  It seems to consist of all the necessary elements for a boys ideal situation.

I was lucky growing up because dad was on the fire department.  That meant I got to hang out there lots.  It meant rides in the truck, it meant playing in his old gear, it meant hanging out at the hall sometimes.  I remember getting so excited before our town parade every year.  That was a guaranteed trip to the fall hall.  I knew I’d go once to wash the trucks, and then I knew on parade day I’d get it ride in one.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that I’d end up on the fire department.  Actually, I don’t think not ending up on the fire department was ever an option for me.  I remember riding the trucks, but I knew one day I’d want to drive them.  I remember watching the hoses spray water, but I knew one day I’d want to be the one holding it.  All shiny toys carefully stored in the compartments of the fire trucks that were “lookie no touchie” were crying out for me to be old enough to finally play with them!

I’ve been doing it going on 10 years now.  I’ve seen a lot, I’ve done a lot.  Every time I climb into that truck, I still feel those butterflies of excitement like I did when I was a kid.  That feeling of jumping into your gear, sitting down in the jump seat, and pulling out of the hall with lights flashing and sirens wailing, I don’t think will ever grow old for me.  Actually, since I transferred to my new station a year and a half ago, it’s only got better for me because they do three to four times the amount of calls as my old station did.

Today I did a fire prevention event for a group of small children.  They are something I’ve always enjoyed, because it takes me back to my childhood.  I’m a little afraid of kids.  They’re pretty small, you know.  I’m always afraid of breaking one.  Especially around the fire trucks and all that equipment.  At the same time though, nothing melts my heart like seeing the joy in a little kids eyes while they’re bouncing around inside the truck or waiting for their turn to hold the hose.

Twenty five years ago, I was that kid.  I was fascinated beyond the capacity of my vocabulary.  What I couldn’t express in words, I communicated through pure joy.  All I could do was stand there with my eyes as big as saucers, and my smile as wide as my mouth would let me.  I ran, and bounced and skipped and crawled and explored everything with wonder.  I wanted to sit in the drivers seat and put my hands on a wheel that was bigger around than I was tall.  I wanted to wear the coat that swallowed me whole, leaving my head to pop out like a turtle.  I wanted to pull the handle back and watch the water shoot from the hose like a cannon.  I wanted to splash in the puddles that came after.

I smiled for 2 hours today.  It made my face hurt.  I’m sure a lack of sleep, and the hot sun may have been a factor, but mostly, it was the kids.  All of them.  The boys and the girls and watching them take in the wonder of it all.  Each time I lifted one of them into the truck, my heart melted a little bit.  Each time one of them reached out for me to bring them back down, my heart melted a little.  Each time they touched my hand and pulled the lever on the nozzle with me, my heart melted a little.

The only thing better than doing what I did today, will be the day when I am “Firefighter Marc” and the parent too.  That is the day it will have come full circle.  The day it’s my little boy, or my little girl.  Just thinking about that day makes me smile.  And maybe my little boy or little girl will grow up and become a firefighter just like me, and maybe they won’t.  Either way, I can’t wait for the chance to share it all with them like my dad did with me.

As a self diagnosed over-thinker, I often find myself asking myself a lot of questions that I’ll probably never get the answers to.  Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure if there even are answers to them.  One of these days, perhaps, I’ll just accept that some things simply are, and that is really all the explanation necessary.

I started my day today by asking why in the world morning has to come so early.  More specifically, I was asking why in the world I agreed to participate in an event that would see me getting out of bed at 8a on a Saturday, my day off.  I know what you’re thinking, I’m a whiner.  Everybody gets out of bed at 8a.  OK.  Fair enough.  Give me this much though, I’m an insomniac.  I need to take sleep when I can get it.  I can’t get it, if I’m setting alarm clocks and waking myself up!

It took me nearly an hour to feel like I was even in my body.  After a long shower, face contact with a door frame, a cracked shin on the sharp corner of my bed, and a stubbed toe on my weight bench, which is actually more of a clothes hanging device than it is a weight bench, I was somewhat coherent.

I drove to work and listened to a few of my favorite songs, and tried to get myself pumped.  Well, I tried to get myself awake anyway.  Baby steps, you know.  During the drive, I started asking another question.  Why does it have to rain?

I was on my way to a car wash.  It was a big deal too.  A national event raising money for Cystic Fibrosis research and treatment.  The sponsor, CarStar, was also hoping to set a Guinness World Record by washing 4000 cars, nationally, in 8 hours.  I was going with the radio station to host a 4 hour remote from the location in Brantford.  We were hoping to really hype it up and get lots of people out.  I’m all about raising money for great causes, but as I watched the rain fall from the dark skies above, I wasn’t feeling very good about the event.

When I pulled into the radio station parking lot, I asked another question.  Why did my pager have to go off!  Not 10 seconds after I got into the parking lot, I got a fire call for a possible structure fire.  Any other Saturday and I would have been home for it.  Because I was doing this car wash in the rain, I was missing it!  That is always depressing for me, because I love being a firefighter.  The thing is, it’s kind of hard to be one when you’re missing the call.

So here it was, 9:30 in the morning, and my obsessive question asking, over-thinking habit, had already given me a bad attitude without even realizing it.  Early morning, little sleep, rain – with no end in sight, and now I’m missing a possible structure fire.  I was convincing myself, unintentionally, that today was going to suck.

When I arrived at the event I was introduced to the owners of the location, and met a couple of the people responsible for helping with the event.  A group of students from St. John’s College, and a group of people from Participation House, were giving up their Saturday to volunteer for this event.  They were the ones that would be washing cars in the rain, while I watched from inside.  Suddenly, I was feeling a little convicted about my bad attitude.

As the morning progressed, I witnessed something amazing.  I watched a group of probably 30 people, standing outside in non stop rain, washing cars with smiles on their faces, and genuinely having a great time!  If you can’t beat it, join it, I said during one of my cut-ins on the air.  That’s what these people were doing.  The rain was soaking them anyway, so why not have some fun?  Water fights were happening everywhere.  Water balloons were being tossed, covert attacks were being launched, and the garden hose become a tool for battle domination!

The volunteers were laughing, dancing and singing in the rain.  Not just one or two of them either.  All of them.  They were just having fun!  While I was thinking the event was going to tank because people wouldn’t come and get their car washed in the rain, and as a result, very little money would be raised, they were out there living in the moment.  They were taking control of their circumstances instead of letting their circumstances take control of them.  It was a humbling sight, and a beautiful sight!

I tried as hard as I have ever tried on air today.  I wanted to be great for them.  Because of them!  I wanted to have flawless breaks.  I wanted to paint an accurate picture of this incredible experience that was unfolding before my eyes.  I wanted everybody listening to the radio today to come and see it for themselves, and maybe, just maybe, catch some of the joy that I did.  And you know what?  People did come!  Lots of people.  They honked their horns as they drove by.  They got their cars washed in the rain.  And they ate hamburgers… glorious hamburgers!

When the sun came out 15 minutes before the end of the event, after raining non stop since the morning, most of us just laughed.  When I got in my truck to drive home, I started thinking.  Maybe that sunshine was a smile from God.  Nobody questioned Him for the rain.  Nobody even complained.  They just washed cars, and sang and danced in the rain.  I bet that made Him happy, and I think that’s why He smiled.

I am white.  Stark raving white.  I don’t mean Caucasian, though I am that as well.  I’m talking complexion.  I share the same colouring as that of the Abominable Snowman or a shiny new white porcelain toilet sitting on the display rack a Home Depot.  It’s pure.  In the right light, it’s blinding.  It the wrong light, basically, my body is about as pale as that of a corpse.

I’ve always been this way.  I think it might have something to do with my refusal to wear shorts or go to the beach and take my shirt off.  Long pants, short sleeves… farmers tan.  This is as good as it gets for me.  I am mostly OK with this.  I mean really, who the heck needs to see my hairy white chicken legs?  And nobody should be subjected to the abdomen that once enjoyed the glory of firmness and now mourns a fate that has left it with more rolls than a bakery.  It’s just not necessary to do that to people.

I went to the church camp I attended in my youth this weekend.  A night out of town.  No TV.  No internet.  No 3am dumpster fire calls.  Just rolling hills (that actually bear striking resemblance to my gut), big fields of green grass, wide open, clear, star filled skies, and air that is fresh and unused – like you’re the only thing that’s ever come into contact with it.  It’s a beautiful place to retreat to.

The deal is a trade.  I enjoy a little solitude in nature, and in return, I assist the camp with some maintenance.  Translation… I get a place to sleep for the night and they get somebody to mow those big fields of green grass.  Truth is, it’s an excuse for me to drive a tractor.  As a child I would beg grandpa to let me drive the tractor.  I spent countless hours on his farm pleading with him.  One time he let me do it.  I cut a turn to short and took out the corner overhang of a roof on one of the sheds.  It’s OK for me to drive a tractor at the camp now.  In the mostly wide open spaces, there is little for me to hit and damage.  All I have to do is keep the tractor out of the pond and I’m good.

Saturday afternoon I was at the camp alone.  50 acres of God’s handy-work all to myself.  I jumped on the old blue Ford, which actually looks similar to the one I drove on my grandpa’s farm, and away I went.  Cutting the grass.  Out there in the sunshine, in my 50 acres of seclusion I got this idea in my head.  I thought to myself, if you were ever going to try and tan your pasty white self, what better time and place to do it than right here, right now!

When you’re surrounded by trees and hills, it’s like you’re on an island, even though your not.  I was sheltered from the passing highway, and I knew the airplanes overhead were out of viewing distance.  I believed I could take my shirt off and do no harm.  When the sun bounces off my whiteness, somebody could catch those reflections and, broken by my shadow as I moved, they could mistake it for some kind of morse code signal or something.  However, since I was safe inside the confines of nature, I decided to do it.  I took my shirt off!

I got back from the camp Sunday afternoon.  I don’t think I was home for more than half an hour when the pager went off.  Grass fire.  I got up off the couch and made my way to the hall. I jumped into my boots and bunker pants and pulled them up, suspenders looped over my shoulders.  Before I got my bunker coat on though, a brother firefighter commented on my new complexion.  Standing next to the bright red pumper, you would have thought I was a part of it had it not been for the brown of my hair and the white of my teeth.

I raised my arms very slowly to put my coat on.  I winced a little from the pain that was beginning to setting in.  Then, as if I had done it to myself entirely on purpose, I smiled and said, “I’m just trying to blend in.”

It’s not normal what we do.  Firefighting I mean.  Well, it’s not normal to most.  It’s normal to me.  Maybe not at first, but after a while it became normal, or, at least as normal as such a thing can be.  You train.  You experience.  You do.  Eventually, you don’t really think about certain parts of the job.  It’s easier not to think about them.  Your training becomes as natural as tying your shoelaces.  You don’t need to think about it.  You just do it.

When people find out I’m a firefighter that’s usually what they want to talk about.  They expect that I will tell them brave and heroic tales of all the lives I’ve saved, all the dangers I’ve survived, all the glory I bask in daily.  I wish I could tell stories like that.  It sure would make what I do easier some days.  I don’t have very many tales like those though.  Mostly, I just have stories of tragedy, pain and loss.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a firefighter because all little boys want to be firefighters.  Having my dad on the fire department made it seem only more inevitable that I would join.  I remember going to the fire hall with dad.  Riding in the trucks whenever I could was always a highlight.  I used to put on old bunker gear that he had at the house and run around it.  When you’re a kid, that is all there is to it really.  It’s about cool gear and big red fire trucks with flashing lights and sirens.

They don’t really tell you too much about what firefighting can do to you when you first join.  I mean, they asked me questions like “How will you react to blood?”, “Would you be able to go into a burning building?”, “Can you handle what you might see at a car wreck?”  I answered the questions as honestly as I could.  “I don’t know.”  Truth was, I didn’t.  Dad had been a firefighter my whole life.  So that gave me insight into things I’d see and do too.  But even that can only prepare you to a certain extent.

Something else they don’t tell you is that, contrary to popular belief, you don’t very often save people.  In 10 years, I don’t know that I’ve ever saved anybody.  I had no idea that on the majority of the calls I’d be fighting a battle that was lost before I even made it through the door.  There is no worse a feeling, that I can imagine anyway, than walking into a situation where people are looking to you to help, and you know that you’re too late.  Do that enough, and no matter how tough you are, it will wear on you.

I’ve watched a police officer tell parents their son is dead while I was still doing CPR on him in the distance.  As I counted off chest compressions, knowing my efforts were in vain, I did not feel heroic.  I’ve held a charged attack line on a house burning out of control, well aware that I can’t stop the fire fast enough.  The family members watched their memories go up in a ball of fire.  While the flames licked out the window at my helmet, I did not feel brave.  I’ve held the jaws of life in my hands, using them to cut out a someone whom life had left.  I couldn’t save that one.

Firefighters don’t talk much about the dark side of the job.  Nobody would really want to hear it anyway.  I’m sure it’s a defense mechanism, keeping the stories amongst ourselves.  I’m not sure who we are trying to protect more.  Is it ourselves, from becoming vulnerable, out of fear that we’ll lose the tough layer that permits us to do the job day in and day out?  Or is it our family and friends we are trying to protect, from the pain and suffering that we have become all to familiar with?

On my journey as a firefighter, I have plotted points on a map.  I cannot tell you the house number.  I may not even be able to tell you the street name.  As I drive past certain places, I remember.  Sights, smells, sounds.  Each mark on the map inside my head comes with memories I’d prefer to forget, but can’t.  There is the barn where the electrocution took place.  There is the house where I almost got caught in my first flashover.  There is the corner where the woman was ejected from her vehicle and, almost as if controlled by the flick of a switch, her life stopped.  There is the field where the Air Ambulance landed the first time I ever loaded somebody into it.  There is the garage that was the first structure fire I ever entered, and after seeing what was inside when the fire was out, I am thankful I exited with my life!

I don’t regret what I do.  Not for a minute.  I’m 10 years in, and if I can stretch it out another 30, I’d be grateful for every moment.  And not all the stories are bad.  In fact, as I was writing this very blog I got called away to a fire.  A couple, enjoying a quiet evening on the banks of the river.  Lines in the water, hoping to catch some fish, they had started a small little campfire to cook some hot dogs on.  A passerby saw it, and called 911.  Those are the funny stories.  Those are the stories that bring, if only for a moment, the balance back inside my head between the good and bad.  When the dark memories creep into my dreams, the funny stories are the ones I recall to try and push them back.  Those are the stories I tell people about when they ask what it’s like to be a firefighter.

I wasn’t hardly home for more than 10 minutes last night.  I got in the door, took off my shoes, changed my clothes, and had just started to cook supper.  I had a pork chop marinating all day and I was looking forward to eating a nice meal.  I should have known better!

I had just started working on the pork chop and was preparing the vegetables when my pager went off.  A corn field on fire.  Really?  The first thing I thought to myself was, who the heck even has a corn field in April?  The second thing I thought was, what the crap are they doing burning it on a Friday night?  Regardless… so much for my nice meal!

As we pulled up on the scene, sure enough, there was a corn field and it was most certainly on fire!  In fact, it was a pretty large corn field and, courtesy of a gusty evening breeze, it was burning pretty good.

There was no way we were going to get our trucks to it.  We also determined that if we all lined up (all guys) and simultaneously, well, use your imagination… that wasn’t going to work either.  So that left us to fight it the old fashioned way… with brooms.  We all grabbed our brooms and started trekking out into the field.

The fire was hot, and the smoke was thick.  A wind blowing from the northwest wasn’t helping.  It was fanning the flames, pushing the fire, and blowing the smoke.  It tasted awful!

We were working hard to try and contain the fire, but it was spreading on us fast because of the wind.  In a matter of just a few minutes, the fire line moved a good 20ft further south.  The fact that it was burning so hot didn’t help.  You could only stand the heat for a minute or two before you had to step out.

As I was standing there, soaked to the core from sweat, my eyes stinging from the smoke, I couldn’t help but reflect back on the some of the events that have taken place in my life in the last little while.  Certain areas of my life felt a lot like this fire.  Out of my control.

If it weren’t for the wind, we could’ve contained that fire and got it out a lot faster.  But it made me think about how sometimes things are just beyond our control.  Circumstances we have no say in.  Events we can do nothing about.  Sometimes, whether we like it or not, we really are just along for the ride.

Then Jesus got into the boat and started across the lake with his disciples. Suddenly, a fierce storm struck the lake, with waves breaking into the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. The disciples went and woke him up, shouting, “Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!”

Jesus responded, “Why are you afraid? You have so little faith!” Then he got up and rebuked the wind and waves, and suddenly there was a great calm.

The disciples were amazed. “Who is this man?” they asked. “Even the winds and waves obey him!” Matthew 8:23-27

Whether it’s a boat at sea being tossed by a storm, a corn field burning out of control because of the wind, or circumstances in our life that maybe didn’t play out quite like we thought, it all comes back to one simple thing.  We’ve got to have faith.

I love the movie Field Of Dreams.  It’s the perfect blend of drama, suspense, mystery, and baseball!  Ray Kinsella (played by Kevin Costner) finds his father in a corn field.  As I stood in that field last night, I found my Father too.  He reminded me that I just needed to have faith, and trust that He’s got things under control.

When I am called to duty, God,
wherever flames may rage.
Give me  strength to save some life
whatever be it’s age.
Help me to embrace a child
before it is too late,
or save an older person
from  the horror of that fate.
Enable me to be alert and hear the weakest shout
And quickly and efficiently to
put the fire out.
I want to fill my calling and
to give the best in me.
To guard my every neighbor and
protect his property.
And if according to my fate,
I am to lose my life,
Please bless with your protecting hand
my children and wife.

A. W. ‘Smokey’ Linn

The first time that I was nearly injured on a fire scene came not too long after I joined the Fire Department.  I’d like to tell you that it was a brave and heroic event filled with tales of great danger and a blazing inferno, sadly, I cannot.

In the midst of a thunderstorm we were called to respond to a transformer on fire on the edge of town.  It’s not an uncommon occurrence.  Lightning seems to like striking transformers, or so I’ve come to learn over the years.

At such a fire there really isn’t too much we can do.  After all, it doesn’t take a trained Firefighter to know that spraying charged power lines with a hose is not exactly the way to a healthy, prosperous and long life.  On the other hand, if you’re interested in discovering just what it would feel like to experience the electric chair, or live out your remaining days as a charcoal briquette, by all means… spray away!

On this particular scene I was on traffic control.  We blocked off a single lane of traffic with our trucks, and wanted to keep the area closest to the hydro pole secure, in the event the wires would let go or the lines would arc.  As I stood on the side of the road in my gear with reflective stripes and a large flashlight for extra visibility, I guided vehicles through the scene.

Everything was going rather smoothly until one individual, whom was more fascinated, I can only assume, with the flashing lights and fire trucks than they were with me and my traffic signals, decided to blow through the scene.  In order to prevent myself from being hit, I quite literally had to dive into the ditch.  To say I was annoyed, would be somewhat of an understatement.

Today I was in the Post Office in town and a group of people were gathered, because in a small town apparently this is where people hang out, discussing a recent blitz by the O.P.P.  For this particular blitz, they were parking their cruisers on the side of the road with their emergency lights activated.  In Ontario, the Highway Traffic act states, quite clearly I might add, that when you approach a scene with an emergency vehicle on the side of the road with it’s lights on, you are to move over one lane.  It’s all in the name of safety, and, it should be common sense!  If you fail to yield the lane, you can be fined.  I believe the fine is $490 and you can lose 3 demerit points.

On this blitz, the O.P.P. charged nearly 80 people for failing to yield the lane.  I don’t believe it an exaggeration to say that drivers failing to do so are putting lives at danger!  The group of people gathered at the Post Office, however, felt differently.  They were entirely disgusted with the O.P.P. and their “money grabbing tactics.”

As a Firefighter, and as one who has had to jump out of the way of a vehicle not paying attention driving through a scene, I commend the O.P.P. for running this blitz, charging that many people, and hopefully, driving home a point about safety!

When faced with an emergency vehicle, it’s quite simple.  Get out of the way!  If they are coming up behind you, pull over!  If they are coming towards you, pull over!  If they’re on the side of the road, give them a lane of space… pull over!  Help us do our job, and help us do it safely!  It could be you we’re helping one day!

He was a brute of a man.  He towered above any that stood next to him.  His broad shoulders looked as though they could, and maybe even had, carried the weight of the world.  His square jaw, and chiseled features were exactly what you’d expect to find on this “man’s man.”

To look upon him, was to stare at the reflection of intimidation.  To speak to him, was to understand the term “gentle giant.”  His frame was built, his voiced boomed, it was as if the ground would shake beneath him with each step.  Yet, larger than his strapping outward appearance was his heart.

Though his physical stature may have put him a head above the rest, in the fire hall, on the truck, at a scene, he was their equal.  Their brother.

It was a routine call.  A residential structure fire.  Nothing unlike the dozens they’d responded to in the past.  Fire was reported to have started in the garage.  Burning hot, and consuming all in it’s path, it was working it’s way through the home.  It was never a “house” to him.  A house is merely material.  A few boards, a little drywall, a roof and some paint.  A home, however, was something entirely different.  Filled with life, with memories, with the people we loved. 

His heart beat a little faster on these ones.  He was always focused.  He was always driven.  But his drive was always a notch or two higher when responding to a call of this nature.

On the scene, his crew made quick work of laying a supply line and running an initial attack line.  Two Firefighters stood at the ready as he used every ounce of his hulking strength to lift the garage door.

As the first attack crew worked their way into the structure, the next arriving crew began gathering information from all the bystanders drawn to the chaos unfolding on their quiet street.  Who lived here?  Were they home on this particular day?  How many of them?  All were questions that needed answers, and the answers needed to come quickly.

It was determined that two were possibly still in the house.  A girl, 12, maybe 13, and her little brother, likely 5 or 6.  Their mother had made a quick trip to the store.  She wasn’t to be gone for more than 15 minutes.  It shouldn’t be possible for your world to be turned on it’s head in just 15 minutes!

He grabbed the hose line from his attack crew, and told them to get in the house and find the kids.  He would continue to fight the fire, and provide protection to them while they did their search.

An eternity passed in 3 minutes.  As he continued to battle the blaze, waiting for a sign of his crew, he looked through the dense black smoke and was sure he saw the silhouette of a man coming towards him. 

A voice yelling down the hall confirmed his suspicion.  He did see a figure in the shadows.  Soon, another emerged.  His crew was coming and they were each carrying a child.  Fire chased them as they ran down the hallway.  The temperature was rising.  That’s never a good sign.

Flashover was all he could think to himself.  His crew was coming as fast as they could, but could they beat the flashover?  In moments, everything in the structure would ignite and the building would be engulfed in a ball of fire.  His crew would be unlikely to survive.  The children they carried most certainly would not.

The garage door was braced open, and freedom was on the other side.  Away from the flame, and out of the smoke, the crew would be safe, the children would be safe.  All they had to do was make it there.

The two brave Firefighters emerged from the doorway that joined the garage to the rest of the home, with the children held tightly in their arms.  He continued to pour water to the blaze, desperately trying to cool the space down.  It was unlikely at this point he could prevent the flashover, but he could certainly try and buy a little more time.

As the 5 of them were about to retreat from the garage an explosion rocked building. Bursts of flame filled the area and the bracing that held open there only exit, and there only chance at escape, began to shake loose.

Without hesitation, without so much as a second thought, he dropped the hose and threw himself at garage door.  It was large, solid, and more weight than even a man of his size could hold.  But so help him he was going to try!

Every muscle in his body quaked.  Sweat ran from his brow as if flowing from a river.  The weight of the door was causing his knees to collapse beneath him.  If only he could hold it open long enough to get his crew and the children out.  Just a few more seconds he thought to himself.

As the last body slid under the falling door, he finally lost his grip and might.  The door dropped like an iron curtain sealing off two worlds.  On one side, a world of life and light.  On the other side, a world of death and dark.

He was a hero.  He made the ultimate sacrifice.  He died, so that others may live.

It would be hard to hear such a story and not be moved.  Not be emotional.  Not be changed.  Could you do it?  Would you do it?  I hope you never find yourself faced with such an impossible decision to make.

Two thousand years ago, a man made a similar decision.  He chose to lay down his life to save us from the fire.  He died so that others may live. 

There is something I forgot to mention about this story though.  The courageous Firefighter, he doesn’t exist.  I made him up.  I made the story up in just a few minutes.  It’s entirely a work of fiction.  The second story though, it’s entirely true!  A story written in blood and lived in love.

So let me ask this question.  Why is it so easy to believe in the first story, a work of a creative imagination?  It’s the story we put on the front page of the paper.  It’s the story that leads the nightly news.  Yet, so many reject the second story.  A story of truth.  A work of a loving Father, allowing his Son to die so that others may live?  Why do so many refuse to believe the second story?

I pray you discover the truth this Easter.