The one day I remember so clearly; February 25, 2018. A normal day at first; bright Sunday, off to church. My family and I were about to celebrate my dad’s birthday, so he stayed home to sleep in. My mom, brother and I got in the car and headed on our early morning 15 minute drive. Actually, that morning it was 17. Mom took the scenic route, it was a beautiful day after all. 

It was about 9:58 am. Church was normal. Not my favorite thing to be doing, sitting and listening. I get antsy, it's like I have to be moving. 

At 10:53, the service was done. We had a short meeting to go to about our mission trip we would be attending later in the year, so we headed to the basement. More sitting and listening. About 10 minutes into the meeting, my mom gets a call from my dad. My mom stepped out to take the call, and my brother and I sat and waited. 

The time was 11:01, my mom returned with a distinct look of horror on her face. Me and my brother slowly walked to her and walked back outside of the room with her, while we asked, “What’s wrong?” My mom informed us that our dad had left the house for about 10 minutes to get my grandma, and returned to smoke rising out of our upstairs windows. At that moment, my heart dropped. Amongst small talk about it, we rushed out of church to my moms car- praying and hurrying. The drive back this time was definitely less than 15 minutes. 

11:20 am, after what seemed like forever, we had turned into our neighborhood. All of a sudden we heard sirens—a fire truck.  It was an indescribable feeling knowing that they were for us. We pulled to the side for them to pass, but they passed extremely slowly. We didn’t understand. My mom rolled down her window and said, “You’re going to our house! Follow us, please!” The truck had no hesitation in following my mom’s words full of sorrow and fear. 

Now it was 11:23 am. We returned to our house, covered in smoke and ash. The once beautiful, blue color of it was now a dark gray, barely visible. My mom runs to find my dad, and me and my brother sit in a silent car. 

Finally, 1:48 pm. After two long, grueling hours, my parents return to me and my brother smelling like smoke. We knew where they had been by the looks of them.  My mom hands me my piggy bank that my now gone aunt painted for me years ago. Although the money inside was nice, I knew she saved it because she knows I can’t live without it. It is such a memorable sentiment to me and I never wanted to lose it. Out of all the things they could have saved, I was glad it was that.