Shadows Along the Walls

We are nestled within our sanctuary, and here we stay. It’s four degrees outside and the wind chill is far lower than that. Frost clings to everything beyond the window as the moonlight reveals a shimmering glaze that coats the lawn around our home and the tree limbs that tower above it.  Even the animals lie dormant within their winter dwellings, refusing to come out and face the biting cold and stiff breeze that whistles through the eves. 

I’m in my safe place, near my favorite part of the home. It is not the roof or the basement. It’s not the walls that divide or the doors that receive. It’s not the patio leading out to a frosty backyard or the windows that gather the light from beyond. It’s the fireplace that burns within its heart.

Decades ago, we agreed that every dwelling we own must have a fireplace, and every home has had one thus far. Like a guardian from above, it kept us warm when the power went out for three days in the northwest’s blizzard of the century. Since then, it has been our friend.

We have lived in this particular home for over a decade, which would make it about eighteen years old, I think. Some would say that is not very old for a home, but indeed, it is beginning to show some age. But with a new roof and a touch of paint, it’s still as beautiful as the day we first met. This winter we lit this fireplace, and if you don’t have one, you are missing out on something special. There is no warmth quite like it. The dance of the flames. The comfort it brings. It fills our home with an ambiance. An orange glow all its own. Hours pass like moments. A good book in hand. And while near it, everything just feels right.

For ages, men have surrendered to its warmth and been attracted to its light. A need for its radiance as the wayward traveler settles in for the night. Stories have been told around the flame. How many stories no man can know. From silhouettes it cast as strangers danced to the songs and memories of many guitars on an open plain. What history is attached to the open flame that burns within the heart of our home?

There were many moments that warmed a frozen heart. Chiseled the hardness and the rough edges away. Moments that parted men from their inhumanity and reminded us again of love. They involved faces, family, and smiles. Moments etched in the glow of stacked fire-lit logs tucked beneath a stone mantle. Parents and children opening presents with infinite glee. Mia as she trotted towards me with eyes aglow. She had a wonderful smile that dogs were not supposed to have, and a loyalty and intelligence second to none. Her companion Shaney, tender and gentle, sitting upright for hours facing the fireplace, mesmerized by the glow like he understood the meaning within the flames. I can’t help but think that God has a place for them on the New Earth. Why? Because He loves them far more than we ever could. And if we could make a place for them there, we most definitely would.

“All flesh is not the same flesh, but there is one kind of flesh of men, another flesh of animals, another of fish, and another of birds” (1 Corinthians 15:39).

“And all flesh shall see the salvation of God” (Luke 3:6).

My thoughts peak as I stare from my living room chair at the orange flames within the heart of our home. The inhospitable temperatures outside have no dominion over it. I never want it to go out again. Not ever. The warmth radiating from its golden light is everything tonight. And as midnight approaches, it seems to glow even brighter. A solitary light bathing the night. Its soothing dance lulls the world to sleep as shadows frolic along the walls. I’ve drifted to sleep, comforted by a white mantle, timeless flames, and cherished memories that burn within our hearth.