It was an ordinary day. I was in the midst of baking challah — a delicious, braided bread — for my husband to enjoy when he got home from work that evening. Standing in my kitchen, diligently kneading the dough, I looked out the window ahead of me, that faced the wooded hillside. The breeze wafting through the open pane felt cool on my face in the heat of the afternoon — but it smelled of smoke.

Not unusual in our area. Fires from distant places often drift their smoky aroma into our valley. I noted it and kept scanning the woods for a glimpse of wildlife, hoping for a visit from the deer that would sometimes grace our hill.

Just moments later, my phone rang.

“Are you okay? Do you need help evacuating?” a friend asked.

The dots connected instantly — and my stomach dropped.
There was a fire. And it was close.

My mind jumped to the protocols I’d discussed with Otto, my husband — a former wildland firefighter. Urgency rushed in like a flood, adrenaline already pulsing.

My first thought?
“I don’t have a way to get my horse out.”

My friend, who was on her way home from work, graciously offered to help get him to safety. That gave me one step forward. But I still needed to strategize. Get my pony Contraband ready. Load the kids. Round up the animals. Execute the plan, fast.

The phone was ringing. And ringing. And ringing.
17 calls later, I finally had a sense of what systems were in place and how people were moving off the mountain.

I rushed from one thing to the next: first the few memory bins in my storage container, that hold all my sentimental items. Next our important documents – running around I’m looking for the cats- 4 found, one missing.

I stop.

“This isn’t effective,” I told myself aloud.
I grabbed my water bottle and headed back to the kitchen. Filling it at the sink, I took a long, deep breath through my nose.

The smoke was stronger now. But I forced my mind to still.

I made a list.

Lives first. Children. Then animals.
Ah — Otto had told me in case of a fire, start the sprinklers.
Perfect. That’s my next move.

Flicking them on, I felt the hose jolt in my hand as the system roared to life. A small act, but it made me feel like I was doing something.

I went to my tack next: halter in one hand, alfalfa pellets in the other, I walked to grab Contraband. I didn’t want to spook him with my speed, so with pace diligently controlled, I opened the pasture.

He knew something was up, but instead of spooking, he behaved like an angel. Aware, listening, and alert to my every move. He haltered easily, and I tied him to the tree by the house I usually use for tacking.

And then Otto called:

“It’s time. Get out.”

My heart plummeted.
My friend hadn’t arrived yet.

The children were loaded. The documents were in a bag in the trunk. The dogs were secured. The cats I could find were crated. I had gone through every step I could remember from all our “just in case” conversations.

Still, the fire raged somewhere nearby. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. Thick in the air.

Everything was as in order, as much as it could in the belly of chaos —
except for my horse.

The pain of possibly loosing him pressing into my chest.

Do I keep him tied so he’s ready when she arrives?
What if they won’t let her in?
Should I turn him loose?
But what if she can make it, and he runs?
Would he let a stranger catch him?

I stood with Contraband, lowering my face to his, and breathed softly into his nose — the way horses greet each other. He stood still beside me. Unusual for him, since high-strung energy usually buzzed under his skin, much like my own.

I pressed my forehead to his and wrapped my arms around his strong neck.

“I love you.”

For a heartbeat, the chaos faded. Our breaths rose and fell in sync, like the world itself had paused to honor this moment. The connection ran deeper than words — soul to soul, creature to caretaker.

But the stillness couldn’t last. I had to let go. My children needed me more.

I turned away with a weight in my chest, whispering a silent prayer as I walked. My friend was close now. I clung to hope that she’d reach him before the fire did.

Shifting my car into gear, my eyes welled, tears just below the surface. I felt them press, hot and uninvited. I’m not a very emotional creature, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve shed tears in the last year. And when emotions threaten, I usually outrun them. I bury myself in the doing, in an action I perceive will move the needle and make a difference. I don’t wallow, I execute. And that keeps the feelings at bay.

I knew I needed to keep my head on straight. People were fleeing — which meant panic was contagious.

In the rearview, I caught one last glimpse of Contraband, standing before our home. And I knew — I might never see either of them again.

And that’s when the thought came:
“What if this is it?”

What if the horse I love, the walls we prayed for, the dreams we built, the kitchen where I braided challah and watched deer pass through the trees — what if all of it went up in smoke today?

There’s a kind of grief that tries to creep in before the loss even arrives.
And yet, in that exact moment — I can’t explain it — I felt the peace settle in.

Not the fake kind. Not the “just trust God” Sunday school kind.
But the kind that holds you when your hands are shaking.

With steady hands I gripped the wheel, forcing my attention on what was in front of me, not behind.

This wasn’t the first time I thought I might lose our home. A few years prior, we thought we were going to have to walk away from everything we’d built. And in that season, just as now, the same Spirit of Peace filled me — the peace that truly surpasses understanding.

It was the deep knowing in my spirit: if this wasn’t where Yah wanted us, then He had something greater in store.

An unshakable certainty that the Author of the Universe cares for me, that His resources are limitless, and that His desire is for my heart more than my comfort. If I stayed in alignment with His will, He would not only provide — He would provide abundantly more than anything I could ever dream up for myself.

As I made my way out of the fire zone, peace flooding my spirit, I spotted my friend’s truck and horse trailer coming toward me. She’d made it past the first sheriff’s checkpoint. They were still letting people in.

Contraband would be safe.

I let a tear finally fall. Gratitude gripping me. My almost 3yr old daughter ever so sweetly from the back seat noticing, telling me it would be ok. God bless her.

We made our way to the rally point where each family gathered. My parents, my brother, and my in-laws all lived on the same mountain, so we checked in, counted heads, and breathed a little easier knowing everyone was safe.

Friends opened their home to us with warmth — and pizza — a small but sacred comfort in the middle of chaos. We recharged, and worked to figure out what would come next.

What struck me most was the strength of our community. Neighbors helping neighbors. Trailers hauling livestock. Trucks loaded with essentials. Everyone stepping in where someone else had a need.

Over the next few days, we stayed at a friend’s farm, close enough to see the fire’s advance. We watched the flames — visible, fierce, and flickering — threatening to crest the ridge where our home stood.

Friends graciously watched the kids so Otto and I could steal away for a walk. We needed space — just the two of us — to breathe and talk about what might come next.

“What if it burns?” I asked, voicing the question hanging quietly between us. I smiled through the weight of it.

“Then we rebuild,” Otto replied without hesitation. “Maybe this time as a yurt village — a network of little homes tucked into the hillside.” We laughed, remembering one of our original dreams for the land, before we ever purchased the manufactured home that later fell through.

We let our imaginations run. It wasn’t denial. It was trust. The sense that if Yah asked us to release what we had, He’d replace it with something even more beautiful.

And then we stretched the thought further: what if losing it all was Yah’s way of telling us He needed us somewhere else?

Instead of fear, the idea felt like a grand call to adventure. Wherever He led, we knew it would be good. The peace between us wasn’t shallow optimism — it was a deep assurance that the Author of our story never wastes a plot twist.

We walked slowly, hand in hand, with the kind of knowing that frees you. Whatever happened, we were ready.

In the end, Yah let us keep our little parcel of heaven. Once again, He proved that surrender doesn’t always mean loss — sometimes it means discovering that what you have is already a gift preserved by His hand.

Peace doesn’t mean you don’t feel the heat of the flames. It means that even when smoke fills the air and the future feels uncertain, your spirit rests in the hands of the Author of your story.

Surrender isn’t weakness. It’s freedom. Because if Yah asks us to release something, it’s never to leave us empty — it’s to lead us to more than we could imagine.

“Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto Elohiym (God). And the peace of Elohiym, which surpasses all understanding, shall guard your hearts and minds through Yahusha Ha’Mashiach (Jesus the Messiah).”
– Philippiym (Philippians) 4:6–7, Cepher

Friend, maybe you’re staring at your own ridge-line right now — wondering what happens if the flames cross over. My prayer for you is this: may you know that same peace, the kind that steadies shaking hands and whispers that you are never alone.