Out of Fire, Ties That Bind

The Cedar fire leveled their red and white church in a whorl of flame, but the congregation continues to gather there for Sunday service. In a tent pitched under the shadow of a charred pine tree, Pastor Mark Mueller led the members of Emmanuel Christian Church in song one recent Sunday with palms raised:

Although the fig tree shall not

blossom

Neither shall fruit be on the

vines,

The labor of the olive shall fail

And the fields produce no food.

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.

Rejoicing has not come easily.

In October one of the most destructive fires in California history consumed about three-fourths of the houses in this narrow canyon 30 miles east of San Diego. The blaze ripped through a row of businesses along Harbison Canyon Road, including the local watering hole, the Canyon Inn. Then it reduced Emmanuel Christian, and the pastor’s house behind it, to ash.

Eleven of the church’s 25 families lost their homes.

Many in the congregation began the ordeal together Oct. 26, when the Sunday service was interrupted by news of the approaching fire. Members scattered to evacuate.

Seven months later, as grasses and wild mustard spring up in the spaces between the blackened skeletons of trees, the canyon is coming back to life.

But it is a different place.

Before the fire, residents relished their privacy and self-reliance. Thickets of eucalyptus and scrub screened off almost all the homes in the canyon, offering a form of seclusion that many thought was the best part of living here. Members of the church fit the mold: They were cordial and would say hello to each other at Sunday services, but many friendships did not run deep.

Then came the flames. Frank Foley lost his home and had to accept help from others. Randy Papenhausen’s house survived, but he faced the question of how much he could aid his neighbors. And Pastor Mueller became a leader in the recovery effort, only to realize how much he needed the strength of others.

“You didn’t really know people for five or six years, then you’re living with somebody,” said church member David Hernandez, 46, whose family has taken refuge at the home of another congregant since fire destroyed their home.

The way Mueller sees it, the fire tore down walls between people -- much the same way it altered the landscape.

The fire burned off the trees and brush, exposing homes and home sites, one to the other.

“One side of the canyon used to not be able to see the other side,” he said. “Now you can see.”

*

Mueller and his family were vacationing at Lake Tahoe when the fire blew into Harbison Canyon. When he received the news, the 49-year-old pastor said he considered praying that God would save his property.

He didn’t. “I felt the Lord wouldn’t want me to,” he said.

Mueller, his wife and their three children returned to the canyon a few days later, shocked at how clean the fire had scoured the hillsides and sickened by the smell of burned houses and cars.

The church, a 1950s Quonset hut finished with wood paneling, lay in a heap of cinders and twisted metal. All that was left of the Muellers’ house behind the church was a black footprint.

The clergyman set to comforting his congregation with an attitude of thanks that no one lost their lives. Security and happiness do not lie in material possessions, he kept telling them. Consider the fire a tool God uses to free clutter from your life. He kept reminding himself of this too.

Within a few days, six church families who had lost their homes had arranged to stay with other congregants. Members of nearby churches offered to help rebuild Emmanuel Christian. But Mueller felt that the rest of town could still use help, so he joined Harbison Canyon’s new emergency board.

The panel labored to return power and to distribute supplies. Mueller also thought he could help “hold heads above water” as a counselor.

But some in the community criticized him for not returning calls promptly enough or for delegating tasks, such as scheduling volunteers and trash bins, that he didn’t feel he had the organizational skills to handle.

Mueller was working 16 hours a day. About five weeks after the fire, he hit the breaking point.

One Tuesday, after a day of trying to distribute relief supplies, Mueller found yet another box of donated goods in front of the trailer on his property. He suddenly had trouble breathing and his chest tightened. All he could think about was the multitude of tasks in front of him and the tiny trailer that he and his family were calling home.

He telephoned his wife. She came home. She booked them a hotel out of the canyon.

“It was pretty humbling,” he said.

A few weeks later, he decided to take his family to his wife’s family farm in Pennsylvania for Christmas.

Some in Harbison Canyon criticized him for leaving his flock in the middle of a disaster. But he and his children needed to get away from the grim landscape.

“It snowed Christmas Eve” in Pennsylvania, he said, “and we had a cold, frosty Christmas morning instead of the ashes and dust back here.”

Mueller came back refreshed but with a keen understanding of his own limits.

“The hardest thing for me was not losing everything I owned,” he said. “The hardest thing was having expectations put on me of how I ought to respond and not feeling able to meet those expectations.”

But with the self-realization, Mueller said, he learned an even more important lesson: that he could rely on others to help him solve problems.

As he tried to set boundaries on his efforts, members of the congregation jumped in.

Ken Cortell dug up other people’s foundations with a backhoe. The Gibbs opened their attic to the Hernandezes indefinitely, and parents now share home-schooling duties. When Mueller decided not to seek a seat on the canyon’s new neighborhood board, fellow church member Tom Bolz stepped up, eventually becoming the panel’s chairman.

Through Mueller’s ups and downs over the last seven months, friends believe he has emerged a stronger person, someone more willing to ask others for help and have faith that things will work out.

“I see he’s working toward a better Mark,” said Randy Papenhausen, a church member who lives across the street.

*

Frank Foley, 46, was running late for church Oct. 26. When he arrived, no one was inside.

Soon he was frantically gathering his dog, Lumpy, and his bird, Sydney, just as the fire entered the canyon. He didn’t pack a suitcase.

Foley had come to the canyon two years ago, looking for an affordable place to call his own. He had no family in the state and had been living on a $750 Social Security check, Medi-Cal and Medicare since he was diagnosed 17 years ago with schizoaffective disorder, which caused mood swings and depression.

When he found the one-room cottage in Harbison Canyon, Foley fell in love with the rustic scenery. He was introduced to Emmanuel Christian a few months later, when his car broke down at the freeway exit above Harbison Canyon. Bolz, one of the church’s elders, gave him a ride home and told him about a Bible study.

Foley met Papenhausen at the church, and they began to hang out at least once a week, discussing the New Testament over beer or Mueller’s sermons over cigarettes. They jammed on their guitars, playing contemporary gospel music.

Still, Foley was independent. “I don’t usually take help from somebody,” he said.

The fire flattened his property. Everything was gone, including the more than 2,000 cassettes of music he had written and recorded himself.

The Papenhausens welcomed him into their home, one of the few to survive the fire. He paid $400 a month in rent.

A couple of times a week, Foley takes charge of making dinner, cooking up lasagna or roast beef. He also pitches in for groceries. During the day, he keeps the kids occupied with baseball.

“Before, I would just sit at home, try to find something to watch on TV,” he said.

Staying busy has kept his mind from wandering, Foley said. His doctors have even decreased his medication for depression, he said.

But Foley still has difficulty talking about the fire and his loss. “I’m still kind of in shock,” he said. “Sometimes I wish I still had my independence.”

He worries about burdening the Papenhausens.

“I still ask if I can have a sandwich, or if it’s OK to take a shower, stuff like that,” he said. “I still feel that I’m imposing on them, even though they tell me I don’t have to ask.”

But seven months later, Foley said he feels like part of the family. “For me, the fire has turned out to be more of a gift than it was a tragedy,” he said.

*

Randy Papenhausen, 37, knew the fire was coming when he, his wife and their four children headed to church that Sunday. They evacuated and over the next two days heard reports that hundreds of houses in the canyon had been lost. But no one knew which ones.

When a group of church members returned to the canyon, the news was grim. Only two of the 13 church families in the canyon had their homes survive.

The Papenhausens’ was the only one standing for blocks. The fire had burned down part of the family’s fence, warped a window and melted some blinds. But the house was intact.

Papenhausen saw his house’s survival as a sign that he should share the blessing with others. His thoughts turned to Foley.

As he struggled to understand God’s plan amid the destruction of his community, it became clear what he should do.

“I really felt God wanted me to prepare a place for Frank,” he said. “I just told Frank he was staying here [with us] and that was the way it was going to be.”

Papenhausen, a construction worker, never doubted his decision. Foley’s mental condition wasn’t a worry, he said, because he already knew him from their jam sessions and Bible studies.

“He just in his heart wants to be a good guy,” he said.

He cleared out his oldest son’s room for Foley. Jacob bunked with his two younger brothers. When they pick up carne asada burritos, they ask if Foley wants one. When they go to soccer games, they ask if he wants to go along.

The addition to the family has required some adjustments. Papenhausen now leaves a step stool in front of the bathroom door because it does not close properly. “It’s just a sign to say, ‘Somebody’s in the bathroom; don’t go walking in.’ My 7-year-old hasn’t learned how to knock yet, so I don’t want him traumatizing Frank.”

Sometimes they have to fetch Foley’s medication. When he gets anxious, they gently reassure him it’s going to be OK.

“He needed to come into the house and see us still doing our normal routine,” said Papenhausen’s wife, Heidi, 35. “Even though the world was falling apart around him, there was still some stability.”

It’s much better for Foley now to be with a family that cares about him than live alone, Randy Papenhausen said.

“Frank made a comment long ago, during church, that he wanted to go from being the needy to the needed. Now Frank is part of the needed of society.”

*

Mark Mueller, Frank Foley and Randy Papenhausen gather each Sunday with the rest of the congregation.

All around are signs of recovery. Ash and debris have been removed from lots, replaced by temporary trailers. The first frames of new houses are going up.

When they talk about the fire, they focus on the blessings it brought -- a deeper bond with each other and the community.

Even people who thought they knew their friends before found more to discover.

Before Foley moved in, Papenhausen knew about his friend’s nervous eye twitching. But it was only after months under one roof that he discovered the color of Foley’s eyes.

“He’s got nice hazel eyes.”