Guest Editorial
C D A J O U R N A L , V O L 4 9 , Nº 3
The Paradise Fire: Faith, Hope and Charity David Reed, DDS
Editor’s note: I met David Reed at the American Institute of Oral Biology annual meeting in 2019. David and I had some very pleasant conversations during the meeting. I was struck by how his faith supported his life. It was almost one year after California’s all-time deadliest wildfire: the Camp Fire. That conflagration consumed the town of Paradise including the house David and his family called home. At the end of 2020, I started thinking of him again. The story of his losses and how his life was changed is both unique and universal. In these times, when we feel the loss of so many beloved people and the loss of what “normal” used to entail, I thought of David. I asked him if he would share his story of the wildfire experience. My hope is that we can identify with his story and understand it in a broader sense. It seems too often we choose to focus on our generalized grievances and emphasize divisions that pit “us” against “them.” We choose to reckon the sum of our lives in terms of what we have lost and what we are owed. Perhaps his experience can help us to refocus our perspective. Perhaps we can come to see that we share common human values and have common human needs. Perhaps we can decide to recognize the innate worth of others and come to realize that working together toward mutual goals can help us all to live happier and healthier lives.
I realized my pride was “the problem.” I am Dr. Reed. I don’t need any handouts. I was thinking I was better than the others standing in line. Oh, what an awakening.
E
arly Thursday morning, Nov. 8, 2018, I looked out the north-facing clinic window. I liked to do this between patient visits at the dental clinic in Oroville, Calif., where I worked. On this day, I noticed large dark plumes of smoke coming from Paradise, 35 miles north, where my family and I live. I had left our home that morning and driven to the clinic like I normally do. My first patient was scheduled for 7:30. It was 8:15 when I saw the smoke. I called my wife, Brenda, who sounded anxious as she told me she was evacuating. There had been no warning at all. She was packing meds for Myles, our adult special needs granddaughter, and the family mascot, Ziva, a 9-year-old Shih Tzu. There was no time to spare. She loaded everything in her little sports car and left by the only open evacuation route. She was heading northeast to Chico. Brenda, Myles and Ziva began a fiery journey that normally only took 30 minutes. She put her faith in the Lord and tuned in to the all-faith music radio station. She told me later that smoke and darkness were around her car. She could not see to the left or to the right. Myles and Ziva were quiet. The light was unearthly orange. There were no shadows, only trees outlined in flames. The high winds pushed the flames from one tree to the next and gave life to
the glowing embers dancing around the car and capering across the road. I told the staff at work about the fire and asked them to pray for my family, canceled my patients for the day and went to our church in Oroville. I cried three minutes of lamentation for the loss of all our worldly possessions and began praying with a brother from the congregation. A great calm came over me — it came from my faith, in answer to my hope and prayers that my family would be OK. Four and a half hours later, my family, Brenda, Myles and Ziva alive and well, arrived at the church in the unscathed little sportscar. My prayers were answered. We discussed what to do and where to sleep. The nearest hotel was in Sacramento and it wanted the princely sum of $250 a night. A church member came by the church and said her family agreed we could stay at their house until we found more permanent housing. We bought sleeping cots at Walmart and for 21 days slept securely in their house. That Saturday, the Federal Emergency Management Agency was giving items to survivors of the Camp Fire. While standing in line, Brenda asked me, “What is your problem?” She could tell I was in distress. I told her I didn’t have a problem; that was when I realized my pride was “the problem.” It hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. I was M ARC H 2 0 2 1
115
