Though I was barely 6 years of age, I well remember sitting by a roaring fire on a Sunday during World War 2. 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 country.

The mists were gone, and a storm had broken over our heads. The rain, like giant tears, slashed against the window pane, and the thunder grumbled away as if it were angry it had to hang around all day. I didn't like storms, and I was old enough to understand that a bigger storm was raging, a war involving the entire world. But at the moment, it seemed far away. The fire was warm, and my father was relaxed, reading the paper, sitting in his big chair.

Suddenly, as if he were aware I needed a bit of reassurance, he put down his paper and smiled at me. "Come here, little girl," he said in his quiet but commanding voice. And then I was safe in his arms, lying against his shoulder and 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've realized how my heavenly Father shelters me from the storms of life. When times of sorrow swamped me at my mother's funeral, I sought the reassurance of my 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 as I waited in a hospital room for the results of frightening tests, I sensed my heavenly Father saying, "Come here, little girl."

I climbed into his arms, leaned against his shoulder, and murmured, "Ah, this is a grand place to be."

And as I rest in that safe place knowing that my Father is bigger than any storm that beats against the window pane of my life, I can watch the rains and listen to the thunder, knowing that everything is all right. Here I can feel the beat of my Father's heart.