to be a firefighter

I was going to write about springtime and about a hundred other things, but then my youngest son came home from an outing with the Boy Scouts last night, and I knew exactly what I needed to write about today. 

He told me about how the firemen showed them their gear, the axe, the helmet, the heavy, heavy outerwear, the hoses and ladder and the giant truck. He told me about how one of the scouts actually passed out right there, and they got to see the firemen in action on their own friend and how they got started in front of everyone of course, but then they closed the doors of the vehicle where they worked on him to give privacy, never forgetting their job and the human factor. 

He then told me about how they have to chop holes in the roofs of houses and take chainsaws to walls and ventilate a fire in order to control it. It needs some air to find the way out and stop raging. 

He told me about how just the gear alone is about seventy pounds and that is why firemen spend so much time working out. They live at the fire station for forty-eight hours, eating, sleeping, exercising in order to prepare for their intermittent and dangerous work, and then go home for four days. He said they have to be strong to help the people who are in crisis, to get fires put out. 

And I thought about how I am a firefighter. I have to be strong. I have no time to be weak. I must be prepared for carrying my seventy pounds of care, so I can do my job I have been called to do. The human factor is ever present; I feel it pressing on me daily. My mistakes are like stifling smoke from the daily fires, trapped in darkness. I need to ventilate the situations we face; I need to find ways to cut through the roofs that keep the fires raging. I need to remember to take time to breathe, so I can see the way out of our trials. 

I am a firefighter.