One of the things I most enjoy about Northwest living is the use of wood stoves. I grew up in the southern region of the U.S. where fireplaces are ornamentally placed in family rooms but rarely used. Shortly after moving to Western Washington my husband and I purchased a new wood stove for our great room and it is both a visual and practical focal point of our lives. I like the kind of heat it generates and the way the fire looks. By day’s end I can frequently be found gazing into the flames, deep in thought. Or, if I am really chilled, I like to back right up to the stove, standing as close as humanly possible. It is strangely relaxing to me and I feel cozy.
Years ago, when we cleared a portion of our wooded lot to build, we spent many a night chaperoning the piles of debris while they burned. We placed our folding chairs around the fire and sat. Often for hours. Our neighbors, wanting to check out their new neighbors, would often join us and to this day we enjoy recalling what a bonding experience all that fire gazing and gentle conversation was for all of us.
Flames can also be terrifying. Not a winter season goes by without news of fire destroying property and robbing families of their worldly goods.
I vividly recall the moment I was introduced to fire’s great potential danger. I was a fifth grader and the local fire department had just parked its newest engine between the tether ball poles on our playground. As part of our fire education we were honored with a personal visit from the local crew.
We saw where the firefighters sat, we heard the loud mournful cry of the siren and wondered how those men (sorry, no women yet!) knew which gauge to turn. My classmate Raymond Medina was lucky — he was chosen to model the helmet and gear. He could hardly stand when fully outfitted.
Although stop-drop-and-roll was a phrase to be coined years later, we did learn a great deal about home fire safety. One of my assignments was to go home and educate my family members about such things as feeling your door to see if it is hot and never storing chemicals near a heat source. That kind of information is never outdated.
The bulk of my homework connected with fire education from my childhood involved designing a family escape route and practicing that escape. I recall sitting around the breakfast table and sketching our home. I drew arrows indicating the route of escape. Then we drilled.
I would lie down on my bed and blow a whistle, alerting the family to move into action. My brother would hop off his bed, start the stopwatch, and head for the front door. Dad would grab our family dog. Mom would tuck her purse under her arm, and one by one we would exit on our hands and knees using the front door.
Our meeting place was the ornamental cherry tree, growing out front. We would gather, stop the watch and evaluate our escape.
I recall laughing the first time or two we practiced. But it was standing by that tree when I eventually realized that exiting a burning home could be terrifying.
Dad assured me we could all get out — even if it meant picking up a chair and pushing it through the window panes. Windows can be fixed. The important things to remember, he reminded me, was the need to think clearly, push fear out of my mind, and recall the drills. But I was still fearful and Mom sensed my mood.
“If you can’t get out, you yell and tell me where you are,” Mom interjected. I remember turning and looking her straight in the eye. “Joan, I’ll not let you stay in a burning house. I’ll come in after you.”
“Even if you get burned? Even if you could get killed?” I asked in a barely audible voice.
“I’ll do anything it takes to get you out,” she replied with no hesitation.
It was some years later that I again heard the words, “I will save you.” This time a youth pastor was describing Jesus Christ’s promise to save each one of us if we ask. The room full of teenagers was quiet. Some kids cried. Many looked down, unsure exactly how to react to such an undeserved offer. There in my mind stood Jesus. In flashed Mom. I saw fire. It took my breath away. To be saved, from death … how could I be so loved?
How can we all be so loved?
Today I return my grandmother to the Oklahoma prairie where she was born 97 years ago. I’ve written about her several times over the years, the last being this fall when we realized she was nearing the end of her life. She lived three days past her 97th birthday. It is a legacy of strength and independence and simple faith in God that she leaves those of us who carry on. I’ll return in time to bring you more thoughts on Faithful Living next week.
