How God Used a Tragedy to Reset My Heart
We've been living out of an Airbnb for almost a week now because of water damage at our house. Two months total, they say. That's what the restoration company told us after they pulled up the flooring and looked at what was really going on underneath.
Two months.
I won't lie. The first few days were rough. The inconvenience of it all. The disruption. The sheer weight of knowing that nothing about our daily life would be normal for the next eight weeks.
I'm someone who likes a set schedule for just about everything. I thrive on routine. Wake up at the same time, coffee the same way, work through my day with a rhythm I've built over years. There's comfort in knowing what comes next. There's peace in predictability.
And when something like this upsets the groove, I really struggle.
Our whole life is packed into suitcases. We're trying to keep some sense of normal for Aiden and Hailey while living in someone else's space. Nothing is where it's supposed to be. Nothing follows the pattern I'm used to. The coffee maker is different. The morning light comes through different windows. Even the way the bathroom door closes feels wrong.
It sounds petty when I say it out loud. But it's the truth.
I'd caught myself feeling sorry for myself more than once in those first few days. Poor me, stuck in temporary housing. Poor me, my routine disrupted. Poor me, having to live out of a suitcase like some kind of refugee in my own town.
Then on that first day, I had to drive back to the house to check on our animals. They're still there, living their normal lives while ours got turned upside down. Someone's got to feed them. Aiden came with me that morning.
It was somewhere around 10:00 when we left the Airbnb.
That's when we saw it.
A house on the side of the road. Completely burnt to the ground. Still smoking in places. Emergency crews everywhere. Fire trucks. Police. The Red Cross was there setting up.
You could tell it had just happened. Maybe an hour or two before. The air still smelled like smoke and melted plastic.
I slowed down without thinking. Just stared at it as we drove past.
Nothing left but the foundation and some charred beams reaching up like broken fingers grasping at the sky. Smoke still curling up from spots where the fire had burned hot enough to keep smoldering. In the two car garage, you could see what was left of two vehicles. Just burnt out shells. Metal frames and melted rubber.
And I felt ashamed.
Here I am, complaining about an Airbnb that has a roof, running water, heat, and beds for my family. Complaining about losing my routine. Complaining about the inconvenience of having to pack a suitcase and drive fifteen minutes to a fully furnished rental.
These people, whoever they were, had just lost everything. That morning. While Aiden and I were getting ready to go feed our animals and I was feeling sorry for myself, their house was burning down. Their cars were burning up in the garage.
Their home. Their belongings. Their vehicles. Probably memories they can never replace. Photos, maybe. Things their kids made in elementary school. Wedding gifts. The couch they saved up for. The kitchen table where they ate dinner every night. All of it, gone in a matter of hours.
The Red Cross was there because these people had nowhere to go. No Airbnb waiting for them. No cars to drive there even if they did. They were standing in their yard watching strangers try to figure out where they'd sleep that night and how they'd get there.
My water damage suddenly felt pretty manageable.
Right there on the spot, as we kept driving, I prayed out loud. With Aiden sitting next to me.
I prayed that everyone made it out safely. That no one was hurt or killed. I prayed that God would protect them and help them through this crisis. That He would provide for their needs and comfort them in their loss.
And I prayed that God would forgive me for my complaining. For my self-pity. For losing sight of how blessed I really am.
As soon as I was able to put things in perspective for myself, I realized this was a learning moment for Aiden. He was sitting right there next to me, seeing the same thing I was seeing. Hearing me pray for people we didn't even know.
So I talked to him about it.
I told him about how I'd been complaining. How frustrated I'd been about our situation. How much I'd been focusing on my disrupted routine and the inconvenience of living out of a suitcase.
And then I gestured back toward what we'd just passed. The destruction. The emergency response. The family standing in their yard with nothing left.
"That's what real loss looks like," I told him. "We're inconvenienced. They've lost everything."
I wanted him to see what I was seeing. To understand that perspective matters. That gratitude isn't just something we talk about at Thanksgiving. It's something we choose in the middle of our own struggles when we see someone else's tragedy.
And I wanted him to see that when we encounter someone else's suffering, our first response should be prayer. Not judgment. Not comparison for the sake of feeling better about ourselves. But genuine concern and prayer for people who are hurting.
The Comparison Game
I've heard people say you shouldn't compare suffering. That your pain is valid even if someone else has it worse. And I think there's truth to that. Pain is pain. Inconvenience is inconvenience. God doesn't dismiss our struggles just because someone somewhere has bigger ones.
Jesus wept at Lazarus's tomb even though He was about to raise him from the dead. He didn't tell Mary and Martha to get over it because He had a plan. He entered into their grief with them.
So I don't think God looks at me struggling with disrupted routines and says, "Get over yourself, Brian. There are people with real problems."
But sometimes, comparison is exactly what we need.
Not to beat ourselves up. Not to feel guilty for having feelings. But to recalibrate our perspective when we've lost it. To remember what's actually important. To see our circumstances clearly instead of through the distorted lens of self-pity.
And sometimes, we need to teach our kids how to do the same thing.
Philippians 4:11-12 says, "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."
Paul wrote that from prison, by the way. Not from an Airbnb with a full kitchen and Wi-Fi. He was chained to a Roman guard, eating whatever they gave him, sleeping on stone floors, uncertain if he'd ever see freedom again.
And he learned to be content.
I'm having trouble being content because my coffee routine got disrupted.
The contrast is almost embarrassing.
But it's also something I want Aiden to understand. That contentment isn't about circumstances. It's about perspective. It's about where you place your trust and what you choose to be grateful for.
Grace Meets Us in Our Self-Pity
Here's the thing about God's grace, though. It doesn't wait for us to have the right perspective before it shows up. It doesn't require us to pull ourselves together first.
I was driving to take care of the animals on that first day with Aiden in the truck next to me, probably thinking about what a hassle everything was, feeling sorry for myself about my disrupted schedule and my inconvenience. And God just put that scene right in front of us at exactly the moment I needed to see it.
Fire still smoldering. Emergency crews still working. The Red Cross still trying to figure out how to help. A family standing in their yard with nothing.
I didn't go looking for a spiritual lesson. I didn't pray for a reality check. I wasn't reading my Bible or listening to worship music or doing anything remotely spiritual.
I was just driving. Wallowing, really.
And God said, "Hey, look over here. Let me show you something."
That's grace.
Grace isn't just forgiveness for sin. It's also God's kindness in redirecting us when we're spiraling. It's His patience with us when we lose perspective. It's Him loving us enough to shake us out of our self-absorption before we sink too deep into it.
And in this case, it was also grace that Aiden was there to see it. That I had the opportunity to turn my own moment of shame and realization into a teaching moment for my son. That I could show him what it looks like to pray for people in crisis, even when they're strangers, right there in the moment.
Romans 2:4 talks about God's kindness leading us to repentance. I always thought of that in terms of sin and salvation. But maybe it applies to other things too. Maybe God's kindness also leads us to repentance from our self-pity. From our complaining. From our inability to see how blessed we actually are.
He could have let me wallow in it. He could have let me spend the next two months miserable and ungrateful, focused entirely on my disrupted routine and my inconvenience.
Instead, He put that devastating scene in front of me and said, "Look. This is what loss actually looks like."
And He made sure Aiden was there to learn the same lesson.
The Spiritual Implications
This whole experience has made me think about gratitude. Real gratitude, not the Instagram kind where everything's filtered and pretty and we're all pretending our lives are better than they are.
I'm talking about the gratitude that only comes when you realize how close you are to losing something. Or when you see someone who already lost what you're complaining about. When you drive past the wreckage of their entire life while emergency crews are still sorting through what's left. When you realize these people can't even drive away from their tragedy because their vehicles are destroyed too.
The gratitude that makes your throat tighten and your eyes sting because you suddenly understand how good you have it.
First Thessalonians 5:18 tells us to "give thanks in all circumstances." Not for all circumstances. In them. There's a difference.
I'm not thankful for water damage. I'm not grateful that our house got torn apart and we had to move out for two months. I'm not going to praise God for the disruption and the inconvenience and the cost.
But I can be thankful in the middle of it.
Thankful we have somewhere to stay. Thankful the damage wasn't worse. Thankful it wasn't a fire that took everything. Thankful we have insurance and people helping us through it. Thankful my family is safe and together and this is just a temporary inconvenience, not a permanent loss.
Thankful that at 10:00 this morning, when that family's house was burning down, mine was just wet. Thankful that I still have a working vehicle to drive to the Airbnb and back to feed the animals.
And yes, thankful that God cares enough to smack me upside the head with a little perspective when I need it. Thankful that He did it with Aiden sitting right there so my son could learn the same lesson. Thankful that I could show him what it looks like to respond to someone else's crisis with prayer and compassion instead of using it to make myself feel better.
Because I needed it.
I was losing sight of what mattered. I was so focused on my disrupted routine that I couldn't see the blessings right in front of me. A warm place to sleep. Food on the table. My wife and kids healthy and safe. A house that still exists and will be fine in two months. A truck that runs.
Sometimes we need to see what loss really looks like before we can appreciate what we have. Sometimes we need to drive past someone else's tragedy to understand how far we are from tragedy ourselves.
And sometimes, we need to make sure our kids see it too. That they learn to pray for people who are hurting. That they understand perspective isn't just about feeling better about your own problems. It's about recognizing someone else's pain and taking it to God on their behalf.
The Danger of Comfort
You know what I've been thinking about since we saw that scene? How dangerous comfort can be.
Not comfort itself. Comfort is a gift from God. But our attachment to it. Our expectation of it. The way we start to believe we deserve it and get angry when it's threatened.
I built my life around routines because routines are comfortable. They're predictable. They make me feel in control. And there's nothing wrong with that, until the moment my comfort gets disrupted and I fall apart.
That's when I realize I've made an idol out of my routines. I've placed my security in my schedule instead of in God.
Jesus talked about this kind of thing. In Matthew 6, He tells us not to worry about tomorrow. Not to stress about what we'll eat or wear or where we'll live. Because God takes care of the birds and the flowers, and we're worth more than they are.
But it's hard to live that way when you're used to everything going according to plan.
It's easy to trust God when your routine is intact. It's a lot harder when you're living out of a suitcase in someone else's house and you don't know where anything is and your whole sense of normalcy has been stripped away.
And maybe that's exactly why this happened.
Not because God wanted to punish me or teach me a lesson in some harsh way. But because He loves me enough to show me where I've been placing my trust. And it wasn't entirely in Him.
I was trusting in my routine. In my predictability. In my ability to control my environment and keep everything running smoothly.
And the moment that got taken away, even temporarily, I couldn't handle it.
That family who lost their house that morning? They don't have the luxury of complaining about disrupted routines. They're starting from zero. Everything they built, everything they owned, everything that made their house a home is gone. Their transportation is destroyed.
And there I was, complaining because my coffee tastes different.
I'm glad Aiden was there to hear me say that out loud. To see me admit I'd been wrong. To watch me adjust my perspective in real time. To hear me pray for people I didn't know who were suffering far worse than I was.
Because one of the best things I can teach him is how to recognize when he's losing perspective and how to get it back. And how to respond to other people's suffering with genuine compassion and prayer.
What Now?
I'm still living out of a suitcase. We've still got seven more weeks of this. My routine is still shot. The coffee still tastes different in the morning, and I still have to think about where things are instead of just knowing.
I'll probably still have moments where I'm frustrated or tired of the whole situation. Where I catch myself sliding back into self-pity and complaining about the inconvenience.
But I hope the next time I start slipping, I remember what we saw that morning.
I hope Aiden remembers it too. I hope he remembers the conversation we had. The way we talked about perspective and gratitude and what really matters. The way we prayed for people we didn't even know because they were hurting and we could take their pain to God.
I hope I remember the emergency crews working through the destruction at 10:00 in the morning. The Red Cross setting up to help people who had nowhere to go. The family standing in their yard facing the reality that everything was gone.
I hope I remember the grace God showed me in that moment. The kindness of Him redirecting my perspective before I lost it completely. The gift of having Aiden there so I could turn my shame into a teaching moment. The reminder that prayer should be our first response when we see someone suffering.
I hope I remember that my worst day in an Airbnb is still better than that family's best day for the foreseeable future. That losing my routine is not the same as losing my home. That inconvenience is not the same as devastation.
And I hope I choose gratitude instead of complaint.
Because at the end of the day, gratitude is a choice. Contentment is a choice. Perspective is a choice. And prayer is a choice.
God can give us opportunities to see clearly. He can put devastating scenes in front of us on our way to do routine tasks. He can show us what real loss looks like, right as it's happening, so we stop treating minor inconveniences like major tragedies.
But we still have to choose what we do with that.
We can see it, feel ashamed for a minute, and then go right back to our self-pity.
Or we can let it change us. Let it recalibrate our hearts. Let it teach us to hold our comforts more loosely and our blessings more gratefully. Let it remind us to pray for people who are hurting.
And we can make sure we're teaching our kids to do the same thing.
I don't know about you, but I want to choose the second option.
Even if it means my routine stays disrupted for a while longer.
Because perspective matters. Gratitude matters. Prayer matters. And sometimes God has to show us complete destruction on a Tuesday morning to help us see that.
And sometimes, He makes sure our kids are sitting right there next to us when it happens. So they can learn too. So they can hear us pray for strangers who are suffering. So they can see what it looks like to respond to crisis with compassion instead of comparison.
That's the kind of lesson that sticks with a kid. The kind that shapes how they see the world and how they respond to other people's pain.
And I'm grateful God gave me that opportunity, even if it took a burnt house to make it happen.
