Imagine, if you will, a person. A father. A creator. For three long, grueling years, he poured himself into a vision. Brick by brick, he raised a building for his business—not just a structure of wood and stone, but a monument to his dreams. His sweat seeped into the foundations, his late nights etched into the beams. Along the way, he met good people who lent a hand or a kind word, but the journey was no less hard. His wife, his children—they bore the weight, too, as they watched him labor under the sun, day after day, for a future they all believed in.
Then, one evening, just a week after the grand completion of his masterpiece, the family sat down to dinner. Laughter filled the room, the kind that only comes after years of shared toil and triumph. But the warmth of their meal was interrupted by the acrid scent of smoke. They rushed outside, and there it was: the business, the labor of years, engulfed in flames. Fire danced over the timbers as if mocking their effort. The family froze, horror-struck, tears pooling in their eyes.
All except the father.
He stood still, his shoulders neither slumped nor tense, his eyes fixed on the blaze. And then, to the astonishment of his wife and children, a slight smile crossed his lips.
“Why are you smiling?” his wife cried, her voice cracking with anger and confusion. “How can you smile at a time like this? All that work—all that sacrifice!”
He turned to her, the firelight reflecting in his calm eyes. “My love,” he said gently, “these flames would not be possible without all that work. Every drop of sweat, every calloused hand, every ache in my back—all of it made this fire burn as beautifully as it does.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, and so he continued.
“There’s no use mourning what’s gone, for it was never really ours to keep. This building, this business—it was part of the dance of life, just as this fire is now. We gave it form, and now it transforms. See how it leaps and sways, a thing of wild beauty. It’s teaching us something, if we’re willing to listen.”
The children watched their father, their tears momentarily forgotten. “What does it teach us, Papa?” one of them asked.
“That nothing lasts,” he said, his voice steady. “And that’s not a tragedy. It’s a gift. Life is movement, change, transformation. This fire is not the end—it’s a beginning. Out of these ashes, something new will rise. But only if we let go of what was and marvel at what is.”
He turned back to the flames, breathing in the moment. “So let us honor this process, strange and painful as it is. Let us digest its lessons. Let us give thanks—for the years we spent building, for the people we met, for the strength we gained, and yes, even for the fire. Because this, too, is life.”
And as they stood there, watching the flames dance against the night sky, the family felt something shift. The grief didn’t vanish, but it softened. In the father’s stillness, they found a kind of peace. For they realized that the fire had not destroyed what mattered most. It had simply reminded them of life’s impermanence, its beauty, and its endless capacity to begin again.
In the silence of that moment, they understood: to build is human, but to accept the destruction—and find beauty in it—is divine.
Comments
Post a Comment