Growing up in the balmy Autumn weather of central Florida, there were many things we never got to experience. Not once did our schools close down for snow or ice. Hooded parkas and mittens were things we barely knew about. And If we ever actually wore a sweater or light jacket to the bus stop it was hanging on a coat hook before noon. But even in the South things can change. One year, my older sister and I had helped Dad bring in a supply of wood for the Daisy pot-belly stove that was our sole source of heat. The fact that we had to get wood must have meant it was cold. But in the drafty old farm house we called home, anything below 70 degrees meant extra blankets on the bed and a fire in that old stove.
I don’t remember who added the extra wood. Likely it was one of us children who got carried away with the pine knots we had loaded into my little red wagon and stacked carefully in the wood box. Daddy knew better.
Soon, the sides of the chubby little stove were cherry red as the pitch in the wood made it burn fiercely. Daddy dutifully dampered it down and used our carelessness as a teaching moment. As he remonstrated with us, no one noticed our toddler niece getting close to the stove until she tripped and fell onto the blistering hot stove. Her tiny arm bore the brunt of the impact and came away with the word, “Daisy” branded into the tender flesh of her forearm.
I wouldn’t characterize us as remarkably religious people. We were just a family who loved each other and knew that if it mattered to us…God cared. Instinctively, Mother and others prayed even as old home remedies were hastily applied. It has been so long. I do not remember what those remedies might have been. I just recall vividly the relief when a few months later someone noticed how quickly the “Daisy” faded from her arm as the terrible pain vanished from her mind.
As we approach Thanksgiving let us remember things like this from our own past when God’s amazing Grace was applied in some marvelous way in our lives.
Lovingly,
Richard Orrell, Pastor
