Disaster Preparedness

Ms. Rosa had run “Little Suns Child Care” from her home in San Bernardino for nearly a decade. Every day, a small group of toddlers arrived just after dawn, filling her living room with laughter, sticky fingers, and song.

On a hot Wednesday afternoon in August, the wind howled through the canyon, carrying the dry scent of fire. The sky dimmed with smoke, and just as Ms. Rosa was refilling sippy cups, the lights flickered—and went out.

“Ms. Rosa?” a small voice called. “Why did the light go night-night?” She paused. No power. No cell service. No fans. The fridge hummed to a stop. Her emergency app—offline.

She looked out the window: the hillside shimmered with heat, a distant plume of smoke rising. The fire wasn't close, but it was serious. She had six children under her care, all under five years old. Some were on medication, others prone to panic.

She took a breath. 

Then she got to work.

From the hallway closet, she pulled out a crate marked "Emergency Kit." It was something she'd put together after attending a county preparedness workshop last year—just in case. Inside: lanterns, coloring books, snacks, baby wipes, even a hand-crank radio.

She lit the room with battery-powered lanterns. The children gasped in delight, thinking it was a special game. They sat in a circle. She led them in a story: “Once upon a time, the sun went out—but the little suns stayed bright…” They laughed, sang songs, and clapped. No one cried. In the kitchen, she moved perishable items to a cooler, kept the fridge closed, and checked on medications. She turned the radio’s crank—static… then a voice. The fire was contained. The outage might last through the night.

Parents started arriving one by one, navigating darkened streets to pick up their children. Each one left teary-eyed and grateful. They saw their child smiling—safe, calm, fed. At sunset, Ms. Rosa sat in the glow of the lanterns with her last child, waiting for their parent. She was tired, hungry, and covered in applesauce. But her heart was steady.

That night, long after the final child had gone home, Ms. Rosa wrote a note to herself in her binder:

“The lights went out, but we didn’t. We were ready.”

And she was. She wasn’t just a caregiver—she was a lighthouse.

Let Ms. Rosa’s story be a reminder that preparation isn’t just about batteries and canned food—it’s about courage, care, and calm in the face of the unexpected.