Surviving the Fire-Breathing Mountain

Based on Hebrews 12:18–29 – The unshakable kingdom (fellowship)

Disclaimer: No bushfires were started in the writing of this story. While the places named are real and the events described are realistic, the story itself is fictional.

The flames snapped and hissed as another log settled into the fire. Sparks leapt upward into the dark Bunya night, vanishing into the great spread of stars. The children were sprawled around the fire with marshmallows on sticks, their faces sticky, eyes wide. “Tell us a story, Grandma,” one of them said, poking her arm. “A real one. Not just a made-up one.”

She stirred the embers with the end of her stick and gave a half-smile. “Alright. A real one, then. Once, not too far from here, I came so close to being swallowed by fire I could smell my own hair singeing.”

The youngest gasped. “Like this fire?” She shook her head. “Not like this one. This fire is tame. A friend for cooking and keeping us warm. That fire was wild. It had teeth and claws.”

The children sat up straighter. “Did it chase you?” another asked.

“Not at first,” she said, her voice dropping a little lower. “We were walking through tall grass with my dad. The grass was higher than my shoulders, and it brushed against our arms as we made our way down a slope. I thought we were just out for a wander, but Dad had seen something. Smoke. Thin at first, like a whisper against the sky.”

“Like our smoke?” one of the kids interrupted, pointing upward where the campfire trail curled into the stars.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, except ours drifts gently and pale. That smoke was darker. Heavier. It stung your eyes just to look at it. The kind of smoke that makes birds vanish before you see the fire.”

The children huddled in closer. “So what did you do?”

“We kept walking, faster this time. Then the wind shifted. And suddenly it was no longer smoke in the distance. The fire was coming.”

“Could you run?” the eldest asked, sitting forward, stick forgotten.

She let out a soft laugh. “Grass fires don’t run. They fly. You can try to outrun them, but the flames always dance ahead of you. They leap with the wind, faster than feet can move.”

The fire popped loudly then, as if agreeing with her, and the children glanced nervously at the sparks.

“We thought we could slip past it, but the fire had other plans. A tree above us exploded—just like that log there, but louder, angrier. The trunk split with a crack that shook the ground, and the whole thing toppled. It rolled down the hill toward us, the branches glowing like spears. Sparks flew off, and in a heartbeat, the grass all around us caught.”

One child sucked in her breath. “Was it chasing you like a monster?”

Grandma’s eyes softened. “That’s what it felt like. The fire doesn’t have a face, but it roars like a beast. And in that moment, I thought it wanted me.”

The children fell quiet for a beat, listening to the rustle of night leaves. Then the smallest one whispered, “Were you scared?”

“So scared my knees shook,” she said. “But Dad grabbed my hand and shouted, ‘Keep moving!’ And we did. Even when the smoke blinded us, even when the heat pressed so close it felt like our skin would peel away, we kept moving.”

She leaned back, her voice lowering to almost a hush. “And then something strange happened. The grass, all that tall grass, burned faster than the trees. It was gone in minutes, turned to ash. The fire swept ahead of us, and suddenly, instead of a wall of flames, there was a clearing. Black earth. Smoke curling upward, but no more fire at our feet. The very thing that threatened to trap us had cleared a way.”

One child piped up, “So the fire saved you?”

Her smile flickered. “In a way. The fire was fierce, but it couldn’t last. It burned what was fragile, and in burning, it opened space for us to breathe. What could not endure fell. What was stronger stood. And in that space, we found life.”

The children glanced at the campfire then, its crackle suddenly more mysterious, less friendly.

She poked at it gently with a stick, the sparks jumping. “We stumbled out of the smoke, coughing and crying, but alive. My dad wrapped me in his jacket. I remember the world was strangely quiet. The birds hadn’t come back yet, and the air was heavy with ash. But we were alive.”

The oldest boy swallowed. “Is that why you became a firefighter?”

Her eyes glinted in the firelight. “That day planted the seed. I knew I couldn’t spend my life turning my back on fire. I had to face it. Learn it. Fight it. And one day, help people use it wisely. Later, I worked on controlled burns—fires we set on purpose, small and steady, to stop wild ones from raging. Funny, isn’t it? The fire that nearly killed me taught me how to live.”

The children went quiet at that, letting the fire snap and hum between them. Finally, the youngest tugged at her sleeve. “But… was it all bad?”

Grandma looked into the flames, her voice soft but steady. “No. It was terrifying. But I saw something that stayed with me all my life. The fire cleared away what couldn’t last, and in that empty, blackened place, there was hope. The fire couldn’t take us when we held on, when we stood together. That’s what I carry with me. Not just fear. Promise.”

The children pressed close then, eyes reflecting the firelight, the night air carrying the faint call of an owl. For a while, no one spoke until one of them whispered, “Can we have another marshmallow?” and the tension cracked like the embers, spilling them all into laughter.

Surviving the Fire-Breathing Mountain

Based on Hebrews 12:18–29 – The unshakable kingdom (fellowship)

Disclaimer: No bushfires were started in the writing of this story. While the places named are real and the events described are realistic, the story itself is fictional.

The flames snapped and hissed as another log settled into the fire. Sparks leapt upward into the dark Bunya night, vanishing into the great spread of stars. The children were sprawled around the fire with marshmallows on sticks, their faces sticky, eyes wide. “Tell us a story, Grandma,” one of them said, poking her arm. “A real one. Not just a made-up one.”

She stirred the embers with the end of her stick and gave a half-smile. “Alright. A real one, then. Once, not too far from here, I came so close to being swallowed by fire I could smell my own hair singeing.”

The youngest gasped. “Like this fire?” She shook her head. “Not like this one. This fire is tame. A friend for cooking and keeping us warm. That fire was wild. It had teeth and claws.”

The children sat up straighter. “Did it chase you?” another asked.

“Not at first,” she said, her voice dropping a little lower. “We were walking through tall grass with my dad. The grass was higher than my shoulders, and it brushed against our arms as we made our way down a slope. I thought we were just out for a wander, but Dad had seen something. Smoke. Thin at first, like a whisper against the sky.”

Continue reading the full story here.