On Fire 1 DO YOU WANT TO DIE? Life is not about avoiding death; it''s about choosing to really live. The nurses seem frantic. They keep telling me everything is okay. That I''m going to be fine. They say they''ll stay with me and there is nothing to worry about. So why are they racing around me? Why do they seem panicked? Why do they continue to poke me and stick me and whisper about me? I watch them buzzing around me. Then I look down at my body; it doesn''t look like me. I look at my hands, but they don''t look like my hands.

I look at the remnants of my green sweat suit and tennis shoes; they''ve become one with my arms and legs. The pain is intense. The fire this morning changed everything. Everything. A nurse says again that it''s going to be okay. I know she''s wrong. I really messed up today. Today, I blew up my parents'' garage.

I didn''t mean to. It wasn''t even my fault, really. It''s just that earlier this week, I watched some older kids in my neighborhood playing with fire. They dripped a little gasoline on the sidewalk, stood back, and then one of the big kids from seventh grade threw a match on top. The puddle sparked to life. It was amazing! I figured if they could do it and get away with it, so could I. So this morning, with Mom and Dad out of the house, I went into the garage. I lit a small piece of cardboard on fire, walked over to the five-gallon barrel of gasoline, and tilted it to pour a little gasoline on the piece of cardboard.

Just like the older boys, I wanted to make the flame dance. But the big red barrel was too heavy to lift. So I set the burning piece of cardboard on the concrete garage floor. I knelt down, bear-hugged the can, and carefully tilted it toward the flame. I waited for the liquid to come out. It never did. What I remember next was a big boom. The explosion launched me against the wall on the far side of the garage.

My ears rang. My body hurt. My clothes were drenched in gasoline. I was on fire. I was on fire! I felt dizzy. Everything around me was ablaze. The only way I could get out of the garage was to go back through the flames. Yes, I remembered being taught to stop-drop-and-roll.

But I was so scared. I was in so much pain. I needed someone to save me. So I just ran. I ran through the flames. I ran up two steps and opened the door to the house. I ran struggling and screaming into the house. Running around downstairs, not sure what else to do.

Yelling for someone, anyone, to help me. I stood in the front hall, screaming. I was still on fire. Two of my sisters came down the stairs. They looked at me, covered their faces, and screamed in horror. Then I saw my older brother, Jim. He raced toward me. He picked up our front doormat and started hitting me with it.

He just kept swinging that mat into me. Then he tackled me to the ground, wrapped me in the rug, and carried me outside. The fire was out. But the damage was done. A few minutes later the ambulance came hurtling down the street. I tried to run to it, but my legs would barely move. So I hobbled. Naked.

My skin and clothes had been burned off. I was so hoping no one would see me. I was embarrassed. I was scared. I was cold. I just wanted to get inside. I climbed in the ambulance and Jim was right behind me, ready to hop in. "Sorry, you can''t come," the paramedic said as he shut one of the doors.

Jim tried to argue with him, he explained we were brothers, but the man just said, "I am sorry." And pulled the other door shut. The ambulance pulled away. Through the back window I watched my brother and two sisters standing in the front yard, smoke rising behind them. We drove away. That all happened this morning. Now I''m here in some emergency room. Everything has changed.

I feel desperately alone. And then, I hear a voice in the hallway. Mom! Finally! She always makes everything better. I know she can fix this. I hear her footsteps. I see the curtain surrounding me pulled back. She comes right over to my side, takes my burned hand in hers, gently pats my bald, raw head. "Hi, baby," she says, a smile on her face.

I look at my mom. Tears that I didn''t even realize I was holding back begin falling down my cheeks. "Mommy," I say, my voice shaking in fear. "Am I going to die?" I know it''s bad. And I so much want her warm encouragement. I want her to brush my fears away. I want to be cuddled and comforted with hope and reassurance. I want her to kiss it all away as only Mom can.

I wait for the promise that she''ll take care of everything. She always does. She always does. Mom clasps my hand gently in hers. She looks into my eyes. Gathers her thoughts. And asks, "John, do you want to die? It''s your choice, not mine." Three summers before the fire I was at a neighborhood swimming pool.

It was the kind of Midwest, July afternoon perfect for swimming. High humidity. Brutal heat. Blazing sun. Absolutely perfect! The water was packed with kids and the deck jammed with parents. I was a couple of weeks from turning seven, was just learning how to swim, and loved my newfound independence. That''s right, no more floaties for me! But overconfidence can be deadly. It caused me to get too close to the deep-end edge.

My head was bobbing just above water as I bounced along the bottom of the pool, and then all of a sudden, I slid as if I were on ice. The gentle-sloping floor dropped off rapidly into the deep end of the pool. Nothing was underneath my feet. I lost my footing. I was sinking. I slid all the way to the bottom. I didn''t even try to move my arms or kick my legs. I''m not sure if I knew it was hopeless to try or if I knew someone would come for me.

But I just sat there on the bottom of the pool. Looking up. Waiting. Hoping. Expecting. Knowing. Then the water broke open above me and a person quickly grabbed me, brought me to the surface, pulled me to the side of the pool, and I was out of the water. I looked up to see my savior, squinting my eyes in the sun.

It was my mom. She''d jumped in fully clothed and pulled me out of the water. She saved my life that day. She just dried me off, wrapped herself with the towel, got me a Popsicle, took off her waterlogged watch, and moved on. She showed me that day and on innumerable other occasions she would be there for me. She would save me. I just had to reach out my hand to her. So on the day I was burned, as she held my hand, and I asked if I was going to be okay, I already knew what she would do and the words she would speak.

"Baby, you are fine. We''ll get you home today. If you are brave I''ll get you a milk shake on the way home. All you need to think about right now is if you want chocolate or vanilla." I wanted the milk shake promise! Instead, I got this: "John, do you want to die? It''s your choice, not mine." Hold up. WHAT? What kind of question is that to ask a scared little boy in an emergency room!? SINK OR SWIM You may be thinking that my mom was the coldest, most callous parent of all time. I''m not going to argue with you on that point.

I mean, who doesn''t offer his or her little boy, dying in a hospital bed, some love and encouragement? What kind of woman could be so absolutely indifferent and standoffish? Didn''t she know that this poor little fella just wanted a little hope? But what was it that I needed? Because in retrospect, that was exactly what she delivered. I remember looking up at her and responding, "I do not want to die. I want to live." She answered, "Then, John, you need to fight like you''ve never fought before. You need to take the hand of God, and you need to walk this journey with Him. Race forward with everything you have. Daddy and I will be with you every step of the way. But, John, you listen to me: you need to fight for it.

" You need to fight for it. Before that day, I was a typical nine-year-old kid. I shirked responsibility and seldom owned my actions, and even less frequently the resulting effects. I cleaned my room because I had to. I did homework because they made me. I went to church because they told me to. My parents were in charge. I followed.

They gave me everything I needed and I happily accepted all of it. I was a bit . entitled. I was the fourth born to parents who loved one another. They also adored all six of their kids. <.