This time of year in Pennsylvania, I can see woodpiles in the side yards of homes. Folks use wood burning stoves or fireplaces to heat their homes in the cold winter.
Every time I pass by these wood piles, I experience a particular nostalgia for warm, cozy rooms. I can hear the crackle of the fire; I dream up the glow in the room. I let the imagined heat embrace my face and hands.
Mostly, I think about how secure that family must feel; they’ve stored up fuel for warmth. They’ve planned ahead. They’ve prepared for the cold winds. A wood pile symbolizes a security against that inevitable change of season.
I’ve passed that wood pile for several weeks now, and even this morning, I can’t help but smile at the warmth it will bring to that family. The winter will come, and they will not just endure, but they will also have delight over these snowy days inside.
I think about the change of season in my own heart: winter. When will it come? When will I experience the next bitter thing, the next cold front that puts me inside? I can’t know, but I can prepare for it. I can store up all the truth I can; I can build up a pile of beautiful, good things to warm me through the next season of suffering.
I gather each log–each moment of wonder and worship–and I stack it up for later. When I need it, that truth can burn bright and warm and help me delight in what I must endure.
(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, / Kallerna)