The Key to the Door that No Longer Exists

I hold a key in my hand. It is worn, familiar, shaped by years of turning in a lock to a big wooden door that we picked ourselves.

A door that no longer exists. 

This was the key to our home — one of thousands of homes that burned down in the Altadena fire. A home that held love, laughter, the quiet and serenity that comes with the predictable rhythm of daily life. A home that welcomed neighbors, gathered family, bore witness to my faith journey.

Now, it is a key without a door.

There is something sacred about a home. Not just the walls and the roof, but the space it holds for calm, for safety, for memories. This key once opened more than just a door; for 17 years, it opened a deeply personal world. A world where meals were shared, where many joined in prayer, where friends knew they were welcome.

Gone now. Reduced to ashes and twisted metal. And yet, something remains.

A house can burn down, but love does not. Walls can fall, but the stories continue on. The loss is real, the grief is heavy, but even in the ashes, I find myself searching for embers of hope.

In many ways, this key reminds me of my journey on the Camino de Santiago. I have walked that sacred path six times and Stephen did twice, carrying only what I needed, letting go of what I did not. On the Camino, you learn quickly that everything is temporary — your aching feet, the changing landscapes, the people who walk beside you for a time and then move on.

And yet, you also learn that God is present in every step. That what you carry is less important than what carries you. That the journey itself — more than the destination — is what transforms. 

Now, we find ourselves on another kind of Camino. Not one of our choosing, but one we must walk nonetheless. The road of pain, of loss, of rebuilding, of making a house a home again. We will take this journey of healing and restoration. We know that the path may be wet with tears, AND we will also bask in the warmth and joy that come from relationships with our family, with friends, with our church, with ourselves. 

This key once turned, once clicked, once opened
The sound of welcome, the weight of home.
Now it rests in my hand, cold and still,
A ghost of a threshold, a memory of stone.

But love is not locked, nor bound, nor lost,
It lingers in laughter, in voices that call.
A door may be gone, but the home it held
Still rises like dawn, unbroken, tall.

So what now? Where does one go when the door no longer stands?

I go to the table, where bread is broken and hands are held. I go to my community, where grace is lived out in kindness and generosity. I go to my faith, which tells me that even in loss, God is near.

Maybe this key is no longer meant to open a door. Maybe it is meant to remind me that home is never just a place—it is the people we love, the stories we tell, the faith we carry forward.

And maybe, just maybe, this key—this small, weighty thing—still unlocks something. Not a house, but a deeper truth:

That love endures. That hope rises. That we are never truly without home, as long as we journey together. This is the key to the door that no longer exists.  

Ashes to Ashes

We are alive. We are safe. We are grateful that we are surrounded by so many loving people. God has been kind to fill our lives with love. We are staying at my brother’s ADU (accessory dwelling unit, i.e., a bonus apartment built from part of the garage) in Arcadia for the foreseeable future.

AND, we lost our house to the Eaton Fire, as did so many people we know in Altadena. We found out on the first morning of the fire, January 8, while bringing food to and helping the evacuees at All Saints Pasadena. We were shocked and devastated, and we could not have found out in a better way. We could have found out while we were alone. Instead, we were surrounded by others who were experiencing similar tragedies and going through similar traumas. We were walking this Camino with them, and we were not alone. We were enfolded in love immediately - by All Saints, by St John’s Cathedral, by our families. And in the ensuing days, Stephen's school, Sierra Madre Elementary, has supported and loved us, as well as the wider community, social network, and church.

We will miss our house of 17 years. Stephen and I loved that house and all the memories of family and holiday parties. We have so many memories of the bears and peacocks and parrots and hawks and coyotes and deer and raccoons and squirrels that would hang out in our yard. To me personally, I will miss most the casual walks and dinners and dog walks and summer concerts-in-the-park with our neighbors, at least for now. Altadena is a remarkable place. It is diverse, quirky, working class all the way to affluent. Altadena is home to priests and artists and horses and goats and chickens and teachers. The retired and children live side by side and in the same households. A number of residences shared driveways. And, thankfully, most of us survived and were not harmed. To me, it's the people and their delightful way of enjoying being alive that makes Altadena so special. It's the people. It's the relationships. It's the smiles. That's what made our house a home.

So, we may have lost the house, but our home will be wherever we are.

Join us in prayer. Lord, offer compassion and unimaginable grace to those displaced or challenged by these fires, and bring calm to those who need your merciful peace.