Though I was barely six years old, I well remember sitting by a roaring fire on a Sunday during World War II. Our family had fled the bombs that rained down on us one night, chasing us hundreds of miles away to the beautiful English Lake District–William Wordsworth’s country. This area of Britain kept the poets in business, and John Keats’ “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” became part of my heritage.
But this particular day was different. The mists were gone, and a storm had broken over our heads. The rain slashed against the windowpane like giant tears, and the thunder grumbled away as if angry that it had to hang around all day. I didn’t like storms.
I was old enough to understand that a bigger storm was raging--a war involving the entire world. But at that moment it all seemed far away.
The fire was warm. My father, relaxed and reading the paper, was sitting in his big chair. Suddenly, as if he were aware that I needed a bit of reassurance, he put down his paper and smiled at me. “Come here, little girl,” he said in his soft, quiet, but commanding, voice. And then I was safe in his arms, lying against his shoulder, feeling the beat of his heart. What a grand place to be! Here, I could watch the rain and listen to the thunder all day.
I have thought about that day many times, and I have realized how my heavenly Father shelters me from the storms of life. When torrents of sorrow swamped me at my mother’s funeral, I sought the reassurance of my heavenly Father’s presence. When winds of worry whipped away my confidence as I faced gangs of young people in street evangelism, I glanced up to see my Father’s face. When floods of fear rose in my spirit when I waited in a hospital for the results of frightening tests, I sensed my heavenly Father saying, “Come here, little girl.” And I climbed into His arms, leaned against His shoulder, and murmured, “This is a grand place to be!”
As I rest in that safe place, knowing that my Father is bigger than any storm that beats against the windowpane of my life, I can watch the rain and listen to the thunder and know that everything is all right. Here I can feel the beat of my Father’s heart!
“Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high. Hide me, O my Savior, hide, 'Til the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide, O receive my soul at last” (Charles Wesley)!
Originally published by Billy Graham Evangelistic Association.
