Rainbow in the Flames: A Tragic Fire, a Bow of Promise, a Love of the Lasting Kind

By Linda Franklin

With a sickening dread Linda suddenly realizes that she holds little Jeds survival in her own burned hands. The inferno that exploded their quiet world has left her eight-year-old son with severe burns over more than half of his body, most of them third degree. But with neither vehicle nor phone how will they escape from the remote mountain?
Rainbow in the Flames is not only the touching survival story of young Jed Franklins courageous uphill battle, physically and emotionally, from a severe burn injury, but it also includes the struggle of his parents to relate to their life-altering reality. Laugh and cry with the Franklin Family as they take their first steps toward healing.

Once in a great while I stumble onto a great book. One that celebrates life and courage and hope and constancy, parenthood overcoming overwhelming obstacles, and true enduring marital love. Linda Franklins Rainbow in the Flames is just such a treasure to read. Joe L. Wheeler, Ph.D. Editor/Compiler of 71 books including several series: Christmas in My Heart, The Good Lord Made Them All, Great Stories Remembered, and Forged in the Fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Mar 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781462405466

Linda Franklin

Linda Franklin writes from Canada’s Peace Country. She is also the author of Rainbow in the Flames, the story of her son’s uplifting journey from a near-fatal burn accident.

Book preview

Dedication

To the Great Physician,

He healeth the broken in heart

and bindeth up their wounds.

Psalm 147:3

To Jed,

Thanks for pulling me along with

you on your healing journey,

reminding me that

shadows point to rainbows.

Love, Mom

Copyright © 2013 Linda Franklin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices

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Bloomington, IN47403

www. inspiringvoices. com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0545-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0546-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903232

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 3/12/2013

Acknowledgments

To Jere Franklin, my husband and Jed’s father

You chose a country home to grow our boy into a man,

Then gave him all the discipline I lacked in my own plan.

You pointed out the pitfalls when he would have gone astray,

Yet took the time to listen, always giving him his say.

To live in wild country was a stroke of genius bold—

Indelible, your days with Jed in panning out the gold.

You never did discourage me from writing out my fears;

You listened to my pain, and then you wiped away my tears.

You whipped my sagging spirits when I would not even ask,

And shared a word of courage when I fell silent at my task.

You, too, exquisite sorrow knew, and felt the need to heal,

Yet, when you saw my tears, you’d say, Well, tell me how you feel.

Without your care when all of us were tried beyond all measure

This book would not have come to pass, herein contain its treasure.

You worked, and planned, entrepreneured, toiled on in spite of sorrow,

Your woodpile, like your spirit, cut, ready for tomorrow.

Thanks for always being there, through sunny days and blue.

I hope my book will bring your spirit healing inside, too.

Thanks to:

Margo Bates, Publicist for the British Columbia Fire Fighters’ Burn Fund For being the first to encourage me to capture the journey.

Joe L. Wheeler, Ph.D., Author and Editor,

For your unshakable conviction that fire only makes the gold shine brighter

and for taking time to hand-write personal technical advice to me.

Linda Steinke, editor

For always being there for me with your ready wit,

insightful commentary, and friendship.

Ed Stewart, Writing and Editing specialist

For so expertly, but kindly, honing the manuscript into a digestible length.

Image6178.JPG

—Tear drop designed by Graham Wheeler

Photo © Can Stock Photo Inc.

Introduction

In disbelief, I wander through the sterile halls of the hospital seeking a word of encouragement. Finding none, I settle for what appears to be a rather insignificant role on the tough-love team of the burn unit where our eight-year-old son is fighting for his life. I take notes through Jed’s trial by fire with the attitude that our detour through the flames is unprofitable and unwarranted. Isn’t it okay to want things back the way they were?

As he heals from his burns, young Jed explores his new horizons with cheerful resignation. Everyone has scars, Mom, he tells me as the damaged skin thickens on his face like raspberry red bubble gum. They just don’t show on the outside like mine. I struggle to accept the concept that true beauty has nothing to do with the condition of the skin, only with the condition of the heart.

Ten years later I pull my dusty fire diaries out from beneath our bed. Sitting in the floor with teary tissues piled around me, I am finally able to admit to God, Your plans were best. To my surprise, I hear a word that I try to ignore: Write.

What? Reveal my selfish sorrow and spiritual shortsightedness to the whole world? My grinding uphill struggle is my own, isn’t it? Hmmm… but what if my story could save one mother from the pit of despair, or from experiencing panic attacks when her child is in pain? What if I could help just one special burn survivor to direct a tear-dimmed eye upward to where rainbows are born?

The phrase, Rainbow in the Flames, comes from one special day when I sat by a campfire enjoying a brilliant double rainbow reflected in the river. When I positioned myself just right, it looked as if the rainbow was actually born in the flames! I was struck speechless by the object lesson—out of the heat of the curse rises the promise of the blessing. If you want it, it will come. The miracle is in being made willing to accept it. Healing, like forgiveness, cannot be accepted on our own terms. It’s a beautiful gift hidden in a very ugly wrapping!

Broken hearts, broken dreams, broken places can’t be glued together with sympathy, mollified by theological poultices, or rectified by monetary remuneration. It’s a matter of total trust that even what happens to me is for my good. I hope you are not like me, because I tend to forget, in the midst of a crisis, that there is another side to my picture of life—The Refiner’s side. This one thing I have learned from our trial by fire, when I lift my eyes and wait for it, a rainbow will come.

Linda Franklin, 2011

Refiner’s Fire

HeHe sat by a furnace of seven-fold heat,

As He watched by the precious ore,

And closer He bent with a searching gaze,

As He heated it more and more.

He knew He had ore that could stand the test,

And He wanted the finest gold

To mold a crown for the King to wear,

Set with gems of a price untold.

So He laid our gold in the burning fire,

Though we fain would have told Him, Nay,

And He watched the dross that we had not seen

As it melted and passed away.

And the gold grew brighter and yet more bright,

But our eyes were so dim with tears;

We saw but the fire—not the Master’s hand

And questioned with anxious fears.

Yet our gold shone out with a richer glow,

As it mirrored the Form above

That bent o’er the fire, though unseen by us,

With looks of ineffable love.

Can we think that it pleases His loving heart

To cause us a moment’s pain?

Ah, No! but He saw through the present dross

The bliss of eternal gain.

So He waited there with a watchful eye,

With a love that is strong and sure,

And His gold did not suffer a bit more heat

Than was needed to make it pure.

—Marvin Lewis

RAINBOW in the FLAMES

Linda Franklin

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Refiner’s Fire

1 Fire on the Mountain

Tense Days of Survival

2 My Son Must Live!

3 A Stern, Cruel Matron

4 Elevator Ride to Nowhere

5 I’m Not the Only Hurting Parent

6 Seven Words Change Everything

Long Weeks of Recovery

7 I Need a Rainbow

8 A Bumpy Ride in God’s Chariot

9 Sunbeams in Room 105

10 It’s What Happens Inside that Counts

11 Stretched to Fit

12 Roses and Thorns Go Together

Warm Years of Restoration

13 Our Sanctuary in the Storm

14 Scars Are Nothing

15 New Doors Swing Open

16 Healing Inside Too

17 Shadows Point to Rainbows

18 Life Is Meant to Refine Us

19 Umbrella of Many Colors

20 Who Will Love Me Now?

Epilogue

Readers’ Reviews

1

Fire on the Mountain

Dear Heart!

Near Heart!

Long is the journey,

Hard is the tourney;

Would I could be by your side if you fall—

Would that my own heart could suffer it all!

Edwin Markham

Friday, January 30, 1987

Breathing deeply the fresh mountain air, I pause from my gardening to drink in the scene around me. A late-afternoon fog is settling like a soft, white shawl on the shoulders of Southern California’s San Bernardino Mountains. The old homestead cabin we moved into only four days ago is looking more like a home—our home. And Jed, my eight-year-old son, is busy doing what he loves doing most—building roads in the dirt with his Tonka trucks, supervised by his buddy Champion, our German Shepherd.

There is much unpacking and organizing Jed and I could have done indoors on this chilly winter day. But after my husband Jere (pronounced Jerry) drove off to work this morning, Jed and I pulled on our coats and headed outdoors for another day of yard work and play. Yesterday we scrubbed out the small cement fishpond in the yard and refilled it with fresh water. Today we pruned trees and piled up the branches using the shears, rake, and an old wheelbarrow that had been left at the cabin. We even took time out for a walk into the woods. Then Champ and Jed got busy playing in the dirt while I planted geranium cuttings.

See my new road, Mommy? Jed calls proudly. His dusty angel face is framed by the hood of his quilted cotton jacket. His cheeks have only recently morphed from classic Gerber-baby sweetness into innocent growing-boy handsomeness. A darling child, I have to admit.

Jed was born on May 2, 1978 at a small hospital in Northeastern British Columbia—Canada’s Peace Country. But he had snuggled into my heart long before I wrapped him in a receiving blanket. Very early in my pregnancy I dreamed that my baby would be a cheerful, blue-eyed, blond-haired boy. And Jed truly is the child I dreamed he would be. Of late I have become concerned about Jed’s comely features. Could his good looks become a stumbling block for him? Before Jed was born, Jere decided to name him Jedidiah, King Solomon’s given name. Together we have prayed that our son will enjoy the wisdom of Solomon while being saved from his weaknesses.

Great road, Jed! I exult while trying to massage the soreness out of my lower back. I check my watch. It’s nearly four o’clock. Dad will be home soon. Will you please start the generator? I need the stove for preparing dinner.

Aw Mommy, do we have to quit? Jed protests, already knowing the answer. Reluctantly he parks his trucks, then he and Champ trot side by side around the corner of the cabin to the power shed. Jed has always enjoyed tinkering with machines, and he understands the power system on which the cabin relies for electricity. No wonder Jere taught him how to start up the generator instead of me.

Climbing the front steps and pulling off my garden boots, my thoughts turn to preparing for Jere’s return from his new job down the mountain in San Bernardino. I want to create a centerpiece for the dinner table using a couple of candles I found in the cabin, hoping it will bring some cheer to my husband. But first I need to clean up. In the bathroom, I step out of my work clothes and lean wearily against the bathroom sink anticipating water pressure that will emerge from the faucet when the generator starts. It will feel good to get cleaned up.

I have a lot to be thankful for, Lord. Jed is happy. He’s always happy, isn’t he? He tries so hard to keep us from being sad about our loss. He’s our rainbow over the muddy roads of life, especially during these last difficult years.

The painful reality of why we now live in California instead of Canada is never far from me. The school ministry we were part of in Northeastern British Columbia turned sour for us when the board of directors, comprised largely of our friends, asked us to leave. It was a crushing blow, especially for Jere whose dream for the wilderness school we founded on our ranch had been killed. In the years that followed, Jere withdrew emotionally into a malaise of lethargy and joylessness. Whenever I probed for reasons or tried to draw him out, he simply said, Sorry, Honey, I’m just exhausted.

Our dismissal was also a serious financial blow. Since the Canadian wilderness held few opportunities for a person of Jere’s specialized training in microbiology, he had to cast a wider net to find work. For the past three years he had a series of jobs in the U.S., and we moved wherever necessary for him to earn a living. They were good jobs, but none were quite the right fit.

Then one day Jere walked into the house with news that he had been offered a position at the Loma Linda University School of Medicine, about 60 miles east of Los Angeles that would involve teaching. While we were grateful for a well-paying job in Jere’s field, none of us wanted to move to a highly populated metropolis. Jere signed a job contract and rental agreement. Within two weeks we had relocated, eventually moving into our cabin in a high valley in the San Bernardino Mountains. In spite of the beautiful wilderness setting, the gnawing inner pain of betrayal and dashed dreams, and the quiet distance in Jere’s gray spirit, followed us. Jed remained our beacon of joy in the midst of a difficult time.

Whump!

I hear and feel a sudden, shudder of sound beyond the bathroom door, from somewhere near the power shed. I listen, breathlessly apprehensive. We had seen bear tracks not far from the cabin during our walk. Is a wild beast attacking my son?

I feel rather than hear Jed’s cry. I throw on my housecoat and race barefoot through the house and out into the yard. As I round the corner of the cabin, a bolt of terror rips through me, welding my feet to the lawn. There’s Jed, struggling to his feet on the grass, his new cotton jacket in smoldering shreds, his snow pants melted to his legs. His face is a flat mask of colorless, melted flesh, and his burned hands hang at his sides, seemingly dripping from the cuffs of his jacket.

My muddled brain tries to put the pieces together. Explosion. Fire. My baby is…badly burned! Oh, dear Lord!

Mommy. Jed’s soft, plaintive cry catapults me into action. Tearing at his smoldering cotton jacket, I try to prevent the melting zipper from searing his chest. Blistering hot plastic teeth rip into my flesh, leaving my hands burned and bleeding. Ricocheting between the paralysis of panic and jolts of hyper-energy, I can’t think clearly. I can hardly breathe. Champ stands nearby as if ready to help.

Don’t panic, Mommy, Jed says quietly. Put me in the fishpond.

In my confusion comes one clear thought: Jed and I scrubbed out the pond and filled it with fresh water yesterday for a purpose. I slide my arms under Jed’s armpits and, ignoring the pain in my back, drag-carry him across the yard. Lowering him into the shallow pond, I ply the cold, clean water over his face and hands. His burned skin is not charred but has the color of pale ivory, like molten candle wax.

Hearing a loud crackling behind me, I turn to see the power shed in flames, threatening the cabin. Leaving Jed to cool in the pond, I grab a fire extinguisher from a porch post, another leftover from the previous occupants. Racing to the shed I pull the pin and aim the nozzle at the flames. Empty!

Tossing the canister aside, my priority is clear: I have to get help for Jed now! No matter what happens to the shed. No matter what happens to the cabin and all our possessions. There is only one way out of our little valley. I must get Jed to the Ranger Station nearly a mile away—uphill. But I have no car, no phone, and no husband or neighbors to help me.

Lord, help! What shall I do? How can I get Jed up to the Rangers? Show me…please!

My eyes fall on the old wheelbarrow. Here is my ambulance. To make it work, I need a couple of items from the cabin.

Keep your hands in the water, Jed. Then to Champ, Stay. The dog lies down obediently, his eyes on his young master in the pond. I run to the cabin.

Mommy, don’t go in there! Jed calls to me as loudly as his hoarseness allows. He gestures toward the 500-gallon tank that supplies fuel to the cabin. Flesh hangs from his hand like cream-colored silk. Tank might blow!

My son may die if I don’t take the risk. I’ll be right back, Jed! I call over my shoulder. Keep your hands in the water.

Ascending the three front steps in a single leap, I run to the master bedroom and grab Jere’s down jacket and two king-sized pillows. No time to get dressed. My housecoat will have to do. I slam shut the bedroom and bathroom doors inside the cabin hoping to discourage the progress of the fire.

Then I run from the house, jamming my feet into my gardening boots on the porch and