Service

While growing up, I got to take part in a lot of service projects, mostly as part of a church activity. I usually enjoyed them and always had fun working with my friends. Sometimes we would make cookies or treats and deliver them to someone. Sometimes we'd rake up a yard or help someone with a project. Once we weeded a flower garden for a man who raised flowers for a living but had sawed off three of his fingers in a table saw accident and wouldn't be able to use them for a few months. That was memorable.
I always like helping others, especially when the service is needed. Sometimes, though, I felt like some of the projects were a bit contrived. I mean, polishing the baseboards at the church? I never in my life, before or after the project, noticed anything wrong with the baseboards. But apparently they were dusty and scuffed and needed our cleaning. Um... okay.
And then I always felt bad when the service project looked worse after we were done. My first youth activity ever was a youth conference in Taos. My service project was painting the trim of a birthing center. I remember the trim was blue and the rest of the building was a good New Mexico brown. But when we were done, it was New Mexico brown with plenty of freshly painted blue drips on it. Seriously, we were terrible painters.
But then the one project I remember the best happened the summer before I went to college. A giant wildfire had torn through our little town, burning homes and turning our beautiful, forested mountains into ash. In fact, the fire got so hot that much of the dirt had essentially melted and turned to glass, making it water repellant. The forest would eventually grow back, but it would take a very long time, especially if there was nothing to keep the water from washing right down the mountains. So a bunch of us college-aged kids took part in a service project. Some people made seed balls, and other people spread them around the mountain. Some people hammered straw tube thingies into the ground to prevent major erosion, and the rest of us scattered straw. The straw bales had been placed all around the burned areas, and we just had to open them up and spew them all over the place. This is where my excellent painting skills came in handy. I scattered straw all up and down the mountains, canyons, and valleys. It was humbling to see the burned foundations of what used to be my friends' homes and the burned sticks that used to be a mighty forest shading our town. But we scattered straw. We crunched around on the water-repellant dirt. Much to our delight, we found that if you got enough charcoal on your work gloves, you could paint a hefty beard all over your face. And other people's faces. I had a blast. And I felt like I made a difference. It was definitely something that needed to be done, and after we finished, I could see the immediate results of what we'd done. I'd been powerless against the raging fire, but in this small way, I could affect the future.
I went hiking up in that same area a couple years ago, 10 years after the fire had come through. Now there are young trees growing, wild roses flourishing, and leafy bushes starting to shade the parched earth. No one would mistake it for the forest that once lived there, but life is returning, and I'd like to think I helped it along a tiny bit.
I'm watching the news along with many of my friends, watching the fire whip through Colorado Springs. And other places. I'm praying for the safety of the fire fighters, for the people who live there. I hope homes are spared. I hope people are able to evacuate safely with their family, pets, and precious belongings. I remember packing up and leaving, not knowing what would still exist when we returned. I remember it as one of the longest nights of my life. People can show their true humanity during times of crisis like these. I hope for the best, whatever that turns out to be.