I am four years old—sleeping on a cot in mother’s upstairs bedroom.
Mother had opened her eyes to see wavering shadows and soft light reflected on the stair walls—and to smell smoke. Little David was beside her. The older brothers were asleep in their bedroom. Mother told me to stay in bed while she ran down stairs. Sitting up, I could hear her scurrying around and sensed a feeling of serious danger. I wanted to run downstairs to help—but stayed in bed as told.
It seemed a long time, but probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes, ’till mom came back upstairs. She knelt at my cot and hugged me, saying that everything was alright—God had taken care of us. What a warm and reassuring hug. What a brave and loving mother. How proud I was of her.
In the morning she took us into the living room to see burned wood box, next to the small heating stove, and a partially burned wall. One of the brothers had rekindled the stove before bedtime. Another, checking it, decided it was too full, took out one piece thinking it was unburned, and put it back in the wood box. Some smoldering spark had eventually set the wood box, and the papered wall on fire. Mother had been able to run to the kitchen faucet, fill a kitchen pot and, with several trips, put out the fire. Another minute or two of that flaming wooden wall would have been too late—with unfathomable consequences.
I still see, so plainly, mother coming up the stairs and bending over to hug me.
She was our hero. She said God awakened her just in time. We are in His hands and should always trust in Him.