Nomad's Fire: Life at the Intersection of Loss and Significance

By Sidney Webb

If you lost everything, would your life still matter? Imagine that you lost everything you owned, in a flash. Imagine that the smoke of your house rose in front of you, yet the police blocked you from evacuating anything. And, that the news showed the burning of your home for years to come.

Dr. Sid Webb faced these challenges when he watched his home go up in smoke at Ground Zero of the Black Forest wildfire in June 2013. It was the most destructive fire in the history of Colorado.

In his compelling new book, 'Nomad’s Fire,' Sid tells the story of the fire in vivid detail. He shares his nomadic story and builds tension to show why the fire was personally significant. He describes with candor what he learned in the aftermath. The twists and ironies will surprise you. 

Sid had supernatural experiences while digging in the ash. Were they coincidental? Were they messages?

He talks honestly about his life-long search for "home" and for what matters. His journey will challenge you to ponder what is eternally significant in your own life.

'Nomad's Fire' includes a special appendix, giving hard-earned wisdom on how to help a friend survive disaster. Sid discusses with candor the awkward topic of what to say to the victim. You’ll better understand what is going through the person’s mind.

The stories in 'Nomad’s Fire' are real; the lessons are eternal. You’ll grow deeper. You’ll learn how to survive a crisis. And, you'll discover how to recover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Build What Counts
• Release date: Mar 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732157620

Book preview

Introduction

This book is not a work of fiction.

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What you’re about to read is a nomadic journey. It’s the story of my fire experience, sure, but in its writing, I came to believe that to tell the fire story alone would be incomplete. You have to read the backstory to understand the meaning of the fire for me. I introduce threads in the early chapters which will be tied up for you by the end. The things that I experienced during and after the fire are things that derive their meaning from my earlier life.

After the opening chapter, I flash back to the past, laying a foundation for the themes. You’ll find that my experiences have churned up substantial issues with which you yourself have wrestled. I’ve wandered through the marshes of absence; relationship; loss; possessions; purpose.

Circumstances forced me to explore questions such as:

From where does my significance come?

How do material things fill the void left by the absence of more important things?

Is there love when relationship is absent?

If I were to lose everything, how would I react, recover, lead?

What would be the purpose of my life afterward?

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I’ve heard that broken objects in Japan are often repaired with gold. The flaw, with gold, becomes both unique and beautiful. The item absorbs a new purpose, but it radiates a new glory. In the brokenness I experienced from the fire, I saw strands of gold which gave beauty to my story which it would have never had otherwise. This broken object, my life, took on a value that I was compelled to share with you.

There are several stories in the book which seem surreal and even miraculous. I have made up none of them. Whether I understood them or not I recorded the events as faithfully as I could. Everything depicted in this book happened: The fire attack, Tubby, the visit to Sudan, the shootout, Shanghai Shrimp, Sam’s trial, the marathon medal, the condom shirt, the sheriff’s dispute, the bear and rats, the AT plaque, and Deidre the leather-clad Texan. All of it.

My commitment throughout the process of writing was: Be honest or not write at all. I wanted to give the why of the emotions behind the fire experience. At the same time, I wanted to keep the narrative integrity of the story and not glide into hyperbole. If the book seems restrained in tone at times, that’s why. The story itself carries the drama.

You’ll see me wrestle with the ins-and-outs of the question of personal possessions. The issue has multiple dimensions, and I’ve tried to be transparent and honest in my treatment of how my family has navigated the subject over the years. Yes, I get that there are some contradictions. But, doesn’t that reflect modern life for all of us?

I follow Christ, but please keep reading even if you don’t. I will not hit you over the head with a hammer. I’ll invite you to take a hike with me through life. I think you’ll appreciate the themes and find the stories interesting. If you’re a cynic, thanks so much for reading this book.

On my website, I have added a page for skeptics/searchers, and also a page for believers who want to close their own gaps with God. Please go to www.buildwhatcounts.com. All of us wrestle with the big questions of life, and I respect people who search with a passion. God can handle it if you want to engage him in a shouting match.

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Many other friends could have mentioned in this book, but except for the side trail of bear stories, I tried to keep the narrative as focused as possible. Please understand that, if you don’t see your name.

You may want to see some photos from our experience. I have placed a wide selection of pictures on my website, www.buildwhatcounts.com.

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Thanks for meeting me at the intersection of loss and significance.

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Dr. Sid Webb

Colorado Springs, Colorado

March 2018

1

The Cloud On The Hill

STARBUCKS, ACADEMY BOULEVARD

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

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The thermometer reads 95 degrees, and I’m sitting outside a Starbucks. As I wait for Tim, I pull out my iPhone and check email. Then Facebook. Hmmm. KRDO reports a fire in Black Forest, our neighborhood.

I get uneasy. The worst wildfire in Colorado history happened nearby, only last summer. The drought has continued.

A fire engine roars by, sirens on.

I call Tim. "I think it’s best if we postpone the meeting so I can go home to check things out."

I understand.

I call Suzy. Here’s the situation. There’s a fire in Black Forest. Something tells me we need to get home to see if everything’s okay. Swing by and pick me up.

Okay, I’m nearby. See you in five minutes.

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Suzy pulls up. I ask her to drive while I check the news and navigate. We move away from the buildings on Academy, and I see it: A large column of dark smoke over our hill in Black Forest.

We drive up the long slope to our hill. The column grows larger.

At the base of the hill, guarding the intersection, stands a nervous deputy. You can’t go any further.

We pull over to the parking lot at Black Forest Regional Park. I step out of the car and take a photo of the angry cloud.

I’m concerned. The cloud is on top of our hill. Somewhere underneath is our house.

Winds are high, gusts to 50 miles an hour. Air became weapon.

The massive cloud roils, blown sideways. I see spinning, movement, licks of flame. It’s the pillar of fire in the wilderness, only evil.

The fire is moving. We could be trapped.

I gaze up the road to see Black Forest denizens escaping the flames.

I look behind me. Dozens of cars are coming up the hill, residents rushing to their homes to pull things out before it’s too late.

We need to get out of here. There’s nothing we can do. This flame is moving, cars are surrounding us. We could be trapped. We could burn. We could die.

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We drive away from everything we have built in life.

2

American Bedouin

MOODY AIR FORCE BASE, VALDOSTA, GEORGIA

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I close my eyes and remember a hazy sky in south Georgia. It was hot that day, I think. Gnats tickled our faces. The T-39 Sabreliner rolled out on the concrete, gaining speed as it moved from left to right. I see the plane lifting into the air. My memory sees it a hundred feet off the ground. The T-39 shrinks to a speck, and vanishes. The hero is gone.

Randy cries. Why isn’t Sid crying? he asks.

He’s trying to be grown up.

At age twelve, in the fall of 1968, I saw my father fly away to his third different war.

NORTON AIR FORCE BASE, SAN BERNARDINO, CALIFORNIA

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We had been stationed in Southern California when dad got his orders for Vietnam.

We had just moved from Spain, so I was familiar with Spanish, the architecture, and the climate. I learned to play baseball in Spain, and my first Little League team was the Dodgers. Now I was moving near the Basilica of Baseball: Dodger Stadium, home of the 1965 World Series Champions.

I spent every waking moment outside playing baseball and football pick-up games. We’d gather whatever friends we could and make the boundaries and rules based on the location. If nobody else were around, I’d play one-man wiffle ball in the backyard. I could hit home runs and even strike myself out.

We had a grand view of the mountains and could see Mount Baldy at times. Nearby were ravines and foothills. I got my fill of Vitamin D, playing ball and exploring the area. Because I was there for 4th grade, I studied California history. I thrilled to the stories of California legends such as Father Serra and Joaquin Murrieta. It was a state of adventure.

We had to rent two houses in California. Across the street from the first one was a Marine Corps captain whose duty was to visit families of Marines and give them knee-buckling news from Vietnam. We had to leave that house because of a foreclosure on the subdivision. Campus Crusade for Christ occupied it.

Our second house was a tri-level with room in the backyard for my own private wiffle ball field. Two neighbors were Air Force. One of them had a cute daughter who was great fun on a pool raft. We’d walk around the neighborhood together, but weren’t quite ready to hold hands. Randy didn’t get why I chose her-over-him as a float partner, but Dad had a knowing smile. The girl’s father was a fighter pilot, bound for ‘Nam as most of our dads were. He came back to the States but crashed a captured MiG on a test flight some years later.

Dad and I took a charter bus to Chavez Ravine to see my first-ever professional game. I acquired some snazzy Dodger swag and watched Jim Lefebvre hit two home runs, one of them inside-the-park. His number, 5, has been my favorite baseball number ever since.

Vin Scully hooked me with his Dodger radio broadcasts. I fell asleep every night to Vin’s voice on a transistor radio propped on my pillow—in blatant disregard of maternal orders. Beat me if you will, Mom. It’s the Dodgers. I was heartbroken when Sandy Koufax retired. California is where baseball diffused into my bloodstream. My blood turned a shade of blue, Pantone 294.

I honed my own baseball skills in California, striking out 11 batters in six innings on my eleventh birthday. Dodger Stadium was destined to be my future place of employment. I was sure of it.

California felt right for me.

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By that time I had hit the pre-teen years and was starting to wrestle with the typical male issues. I got the worst spanking in my life for throwing rocks at streetlights with my buddies. I wanted to hone my aim and shatter the lights. Hey, it was good practice for pitching. My second worst spanking came on Halloween night when I went trick-or-treating with my buddies in defiance of parental mandate. The chocolate tasted great for a season, but dad’s Air Force belt ended the season with fearsome vigor.

There was a darkness in the land of the United States in 1968. April saw the assassination of Martin Luther King. A couple of months later, we were about to celebrate my brother’s birthday when I opened a copy of the San Bernardino Sun. Robert F. Kennedy had been assassinated not far away, in Los Angeles.

Closer to home, Dad was an Air Force pilot and was gone enough already. He knew he was about to be shipped to Vietnam, so every evening we watched The Huntley-Brinkley Report while eating dinner, a lousy backdrop for a meal. The news was depressing—during the Tet Offensive, the Viet Cong nearly overran the flagship American air force base in Southeast Asia, Tan Son Nhut in Saigon. Not long after the end of the offensive, Dad came home with his orders: Tan Son Nhut. Mom was at the kitchen sink when he came in. She cried.

My final year in California I was too old to pitch, according to Little League rules. The team needed a catcher. No one else could play the position, so I was stuck behind the plate. I had proven my skills in SoCal, but everywhere we moved I had to demonstrate them anew. By that time we would move on to the next duty station. I was an Air Force Brat. An American Bedouin.

In late summer 1968, we pulled up for Georgia. It was time for dad to go back to war.

I didn’t want to leave California.

SPENCE FIELD, MOULTRIE, GEORGIA

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We moved to South Georgia to live in my mother’s hometown while dad was in Vietnam. Mom would glue things together, in the way military spouses do. They have dual roles, functioning as husband and wife. The spouse makes sure the trains run on time and bats away the monstrous thoughts which slither in at night.

Mom and Dad had met at the Spence Field base pool in 1952. My mother still denies that she was trolling for a husband, but I know otherwise. Moultrie was almost home to me as well—almost, kind of, but not really. We made multiple forays there in my childhood, but the departures always came quickly. We’d move to the next assignment. As sure as the sun rises and falls, the military family deploys.

My grandparents had lived in Moultrie for decades in their grand old house. That house was, to me, home. Except that it wasn’t because several years prior they had to sell it when granddaddy moved to Atlanta for work. The loss of the old place was painful to me. With all of our travel, it was my geographical anchor. In Atlanta, they moved into a townhouse. A townhouse, for heaven’s sake. After a couple of years in Atlanta, my grandparents retired to a river home which they had built years before along the broad Ochlockonee near Sopchoppy, Florida. I loved that place. I learned to drive a boat and ski there. It was a haven, heaven on earth.

The next year, 1969, we were at the river for the Fourth of July when my grandfather had a massive stroke. He was moved eventually to Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta. That summer Mom, Randy, and I bounced from place-to-place, North and South Georgia, taken in by gracious aunts and uncles and cousins. I got to know them a bit better, even if their homes were not my own. In September, Dad returned from ‘Nam. I noticed nerves in him that I didn’t see before the war.

The Air Force always promised Dad that when he returned from war, they’d send him where he wanted to go. A native of Orlando, he always put in for bases in Florida. The Air Force, being the Air Force, always made sure to do the opposite and to send him out west.