Wenda Grabau © 2009
In the blackness of winter’s early morning hours,
The farmhouse kept us all warm.
Heat, forced through ducts to most ev’ry room,
Sheltered us from frost, wind chill and harm.
Grandma’s handmade quilts tucked ‘round the kids
Covered us from noses to toes.
But down in the cellar, from the wood-furnace fire,
Heav’nly scents of wood burning ‘rose.
Father felled the trees; cut and split the logs.
He piled and stacked all the wood.
With autumn’s cold chill, he moved the stack into
The wood-room, where his fuel supply stood.
The warmth, sights, and sounds of the old furnace-fire
Mark my life like a hot firebrand.
His work, his commitment still show me his love—
A fire lit by Father’s faithful hand.
* * * * * * * * * * *
This poem lauds an earthly father. However, it also reminds me of my Heavenly Father.
In the black, coldness of sin, He created a safe haven to make me and others feel the warmth and security of His love. He shelters us from eternal harm. Like this earthly father, He, too, lit a fire. That fire was a Light that God sent into this world to touch men’s lives, to let them see the truth. (See John 1:1-14.)
Go to that Light, Jesus Christ. Our Heavenly Father made this haven from the cold and darkness and destruction of sin. He worked out the details and has made the commitment to you, if you will simply believe in the light He sent. That light is Jesus—a fire lit by the Father’s faithful hand.