Michelle and I returned to the ashes of the house where she grew up yesterday. The air all around San Diego county was dense with smoke. It's kind of like being in thick fog, except with a dirty yellow tint. Michelle walked around, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing when she'd see some random object that didn't burn. I realized how incapable I am of relating - my family moved at least 11 times before I was 18 years old, but Michelle had never moved once until she married me.

We've received so many phone calls, e-mails, etc. from people wanting to help. Right now we're just trying to figure out which end is up. It's really cool the way everyone is there for us, though.

O.k., here's an experience I had the other day. When I returned home late Sunday afternoon and saw the blackened ground all around my house, a crew of about 25 people from the California Department of Forestry was sprawled out on the corner of my property taking a break after having saved at least 20 houses. I went down to them to thank them and see if they needed anything - ice water, a restroom, anything. I approached a lady who looked like she was in charge, and began talking to her. Then I looked down at the uniform she was wearing - the embroidered badge on her shoulder didn't say "California Department of Forestry," it said "California Department of Corrections." Then I noticed that all of the people hanging around her were women, and that some of them looked a bit rough around the edges (even more so than firefighting would have made them look). My home had been saved by convicts, not professionals. The freedom and comfort I enjoy was in some way made possible by those who have willingly forfeited their own through their unlawful behavior. It gave me a new take on grace and servanthood.

++Jesus, I am a lawbreaker also. Please give me the grace to serve others in a way that draws them toward you.