Our Loss

We call it “our” loss. The death of a firefighter is felt so keenly by others in the fire service because suddenly, we have a stark reminder of what some situations call for us to risk. So much of the job, whether career or volunteer, is really the romanticized side: flashing lights, feeling important in someone’s time of need, hearing your kid proudly say “my dad’s a firefighter”, the occasional parade. That’s the side that helps counter the parts of the job that involve leaving your family abruptly even though dinner is finally ready, waking up in the middle of the night to respond to a call while realizing that you’ll fight exhaustion for the rest of the day, muddling through politics, and accepting that “answering the call” has no guarantee that those who call for us will actually be in distress, thankful, respectful, and non-contagious. The part of the job that involves fighting fire is, for most of us, just a sliver. But that particular sliver requires the most risk, the most training, the most confidence in yourself and your brothers, the most expensive equipment, and provides the most proof for those in the fire service that their place in the world matters. The tragic line-of-duty death of Captain Jake Ringering was a loss for all of us in the fire service because we are once again reminded that firefighting is not the storyline in a children’s book, but a job that at times will ask for the ultimate sacrifice. Someone with the most training, known as the best leader, and possibly even given some of the best equipment could still fall victim to the vicious and heartless animal we call fire behavior. It hurts for those who knew Jake and served next to him, because he was so much more to them than a name and a red helmet. It hurts for those who were taught by him because he influenced so many of us and was willing to share his passion in ways that were not hierarchal, which is why he has been called “the firefighter’s firefighter”. It hurts for those in the area who maybe wouldn’t have known his face but recognize his name, his department, his county. It hurts because we see ourselves in him, and he is gone.

We call it “our” loss. All the firefighter wives, without purpose, find themselves in Allison’s shoes. How many times does he run out when the pager goes off, and we might not even know where he’s going? How many times are we annoyed because yes, of course, he will miss the birthday party/holiday dinner/school function/doctor’s appointment? How many times do we look at the calendar and feel the weight of what the fire service takes from our family with shift work, trainings, and meetings? But we know without a doubt, Jake’s wife would take it all back to not be on this journey. Because if it were our husband, how would we get the call? What information would we be given? Who would hold our hand? How would we tell the children? It hurts. We might not recognize Jake’s name, but when we hear he left behind a wife, it is our loss. Most of us will never have the opportunity to offer a hug or a casserole, but it hurts. It hurts because there was a shift where he left his home and his children and never came back. It hurts because now when our firefighter leaves, we are hypersensitive to the valid risks he faces. It hurts because we know her as one of us.

We call it “our” loss. A community has been rattled to its core by Jake’s death and responded with truly amazing support for the fire service, from innumerable poles wrapped in the “thin red line”, donation collections, and free hot meals next door to the firehouse for those who came from near and far to staff the district. Members of the community requiring emergency services while supplemental departments came in to relieve the Godfrey crews were quick to give their sympathies. One patient having shortness of breath still managed to say, “I am so sorry for your comrade” even though talking was difficult. Another patient who had fallen apologized, “I’m so sorry to have had to call when you guys have so much going on.” A call for a fire alarm accidentally sounding brought a conversation about Jake, and the number of times he too had responded to that exact type of call at that exact facility, always in a professional manner. An entire community hurts. But in one community’s pain, other communities have found ways to step up. The support shown with flags, banners, and fundraisers spans beyond the Godfrey/Alton area and has become a movement in all of our own communities. We are not Godfrey, but it hurts. If it had been our town, would we have lined the streets so impressively for the procession? Would hundreds of workers prioritized a pause in their day to walk to the side of the road and silently offer condolences? Would our town have gladly given up residential streets for fire apparatus to close down, all so they could demonstrate their own hurt for Jake and the Godfrey Fire Protection District? It hurts because like any disaster, we would be remiss to imagine “this wouldn’t happen here.”

I will remember the flags everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean everywhere—small flags held in hands, huge flags held up by a line of people, flags hung high from utility vehicles, flags stuck into the ground.

“Thin red lines” decorating so many power and telephone poles. Handmade banners of love and support. People lining the streets, with many being daytime employees who stopped their day to stand at attention. Some held their hands over their hearts, some saluted, some mouthed “thank you” as the trucks drove slowly down the route.

Signs that would normally be announcing a sale price or quip about attending church on Sunday instead spread messages of a community grieving. Red and black bows on street signs, red and black paper hearts being held by small children, red and black lining a school hallway. The “thin red line” is a symbol of supporting those in the fire service, but also represents the last ounce of courage firefighters find deep in their blood to conquer their darkest fears in order to save and protect life and property. How appropriate to see the red-on-black in a repeating pattern throughout an emotionally-charged day.

We call it “our” loss. He wasn’t our family member, he wasn’t on our fire department, he wasn’t in our church congregation, he wasn’t in our community. Captain Jake Ringering died doing the job he was born to do, after living a life of impacting others in positive ways, and leaving a wife and three kids who will, by the grace of God, survive such a tragedy. But because of his attitude, professionalism, talent, and willingness to serve, we feel the loss as our own. It hurts to be reminded that firefighters risk so much. It hurts to know his family must somehow move on without their hero. It hurts to know his community is in pain.

Please continue to pray for all who will be affected by this loss long after the flags return to the top of their masts and the banners fall.