The Fire That Burned Into My Soul

It was winter. Cold enough, the air bit your face, but the trailer still smoldered from the fire that had torn through it. The local volunteer fire department had done all they could—flames were out, but the damage was irreversible. Our SAR team was there to run the cascade system and refill air tanks for the firefighters. We weren’t expecting more.

Then the assistant team leader turned to me and said, “Burnell, can you take care of the bodies?”

They were kids. Locals. The firefighters knew them—knew the family. It was out of respect, he said. So they wouldn’t have to do it themselves.

I said yes.

Inside that trailer was a different kind of hell. Smoke still hung in the air, thick and bitter. I came across the little boy first. Maybe two years old. His face was gone. His chest opened wide like a wound that never healed. He was still hot from the fire, his small body half-consumed by it. As we lifted him into the metal coffin, every movement felt unnatural—like my muscles were refusing to obey. But I kept going. I had to.

Then we started looking for his baby sister. She was only six months old. The crib was nothing more than ash and twisted metal. When I pulled it off, there she was—completely intact. She looked like she was sleeping. Peaceful. Her face told the story: the smoke had taken her before the flames ever got the chance.

I picked her up gently, like I was holding my daughter. I placed her in a new metal coffin. And then I kept searching, driven by something I can’t explain. I needed to gather every part of her, every possible piece of what was left, so she could be buried whole. I didn’t want her parents to receive anything less. I searched so long, so intensely, that another team member had to stop me.

At that time, I had a little boy and a baby girl at home—almost the exact same age. Every time I looked at those children, I saw mine. And that made me feel exposed in a way I never had before. It made me feel small. It made me feel breakable.

I thought I was holding it together.

A few days later, I was walking through my Air Force unit when I passed a young couple carrying one of those soft cradles. I smiled and looked inside.

There she was. Not the living baby—her. The burned baby from the trailer. Her charred face flashed before me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

That afternoon, I called a paramedic I trusted. He told me to meet him for a Critical Incident Stress Debrief. We sat, and he asked me questions I didn’t know I needed to answer. I shed a few tears. And after that, just like that, the flashbacks stopped. They didn’t disappear entirely, but they stopped owning me. There are still cold days, certain smells, that pull pieces of that day back. But I’ve made peace with them.

No, this wasn’t a high-speed, adrenaline-pumping rescue. But it changed me more than most of those did. I’m proud that we shielded the local firefighters from having to carry that trauma. That mattered.

What I Learned

Some calls leave scars. That one burned through my armor. I found myself hugging my children tightly, feeling vulnerable and uncertain. But in that pain, I found clarity: the reconciliation of life and death isn’t ours—it’s God’s.

We don’t always forget the worst things we’ve seen. But we can make peace with them. We can move forward with purpose. We can remember that every breath is borrowed, every moment precious.

So hug your kids. Tell them you love them. Don’t wait. Make it your mission to love, guide, and hold them while they’re still within your reach.

Because tomorrow is never guaranteed.