When I dropped off my laptop at the Apple Store to be repaired on Jan. 6, the outlook was gloomy knowing I wouldn’t have a computer for at least a week.

My self-pity vanished quickly the next day when Santa Ana winds gusting at hurricane speeds up to 100 mph whipped across the Los Angeles basin, the strongest I’ve ever remembered in my lifetime.

First, a huge avocado branch from our neighbor’s yard broke off and blocked our driveway.  After 30, I lost track of how many avocados I picked up.  Damn that wind.

Later that day, a fire broke out in the Pacific Palisades.  I turned on local news to discover this wasn’t just any conflagration that only threatened homes—it was disintegrating them into ashes.

By the end of the day, another fire broke out in Altadena, named the Eaton fire.  Evacuation alerts shook people’s smart phones.  Firefighters futilely fought the wind-swept flames as they devoured blocks of houses.  Usually, a neighborhood wiped out by fire occurred in remote, mountainous areas.  Never have I seen such destruction in highly populated areas.

Every local news channel had 24-hour coverage without commercials.  Just as firefighters from around the country, and even from Mexico, flew into L.A. to battle the blazes, reporters out of state were arriving into town to cover the widespread destruction.

Wednesday morning, the sunrise looked apocalyptic, the sky nearly dark with enormous smoke clouds mimicking an eclipse.  This was no ordinary event.

In the next couple of days, four more smaller fires would break out.  I felt for those who had to evacuate and those who lost all of their homes and possessions.  This tragedy touched us more because we also live in a hillside region. 

Back in 2017, the ridge not far from our house was on fire.  If we were one block closer to the mountains we would have had to evacuate.  However, that fire was contained before it swept down the ridge.  This tragedy was a wake-up call that such destruction could happen to us.

For the next two weeks, Los Angeles made international headlines.  On all media platforms, one could not escape images of burning homes and people weeping.  With thousands of structures destroyed, drone cameras showed land that looked as if a bomb had hit it.

Wherever we went, no matter who we encountered—a neighbor, a server at a restaurant, a person in line at a store—we felt compelled to “check in” on them:  are they okay?  Everyone knew someone who had been evacuated and who had lost their home.  All Angelenos felt terrible that their city was hurting. 

Our hearts go out to those who are homeless and now have to figure out a path of recovery.  This natural disaster most likely will become the worst in U.S. history in terms of financial cost.  Miraculously, only a couple of dozen people lost their lives.  About 8,000 people died in the Great Galveston storm of 1900.

The one bright light among the devastation were the countless volunteers who have donated goods and who have helped shelter those in need, including pets.  Oddly, tragedies bring out the best in people.  A reminder that through the thicket of noise about how divided people are about politics rises the common humanity that binds us as a people.