The Night the Sirens Came

Margaret Thornton was eight years old the first time the air raid sirens wailed over Birmingham in November 1940. She remembers the sound cutting through the dark like a scream, remembers her mother scooping her from bed, remembers the cold November air biting her bare feet as they ran across the garden toward the Anderson shelter.

But what Margaret remembers most is what her father did every single time. Before he pulled the corrugated steel door shut, before he lit the paraffin lamp, before he wrapped the blankets around her shivering shoulders, he would say the same five words: "We are safe in here."

Not "We might be safe." Not "I hope we'll be okay." He spoke it like a fact, like gravity, like morning. And something in his voice — steady as stone — made the bombs sound farther away. The walls were only curved steel and packed earth. But her father's declaration transformed that cramped, damp hole into the safest place in England.

Decades later, Margaret told her grandchildren, "It wasn't the shelter that saved me from fear. It was hearing my father's voice name it safe."

Proverbs 18:10 says, "The name of the Lord is a fortified tower; the righteous run to it and are safe." Notice — we don't run to a theory or a theology. We run to a Name. The name of Yahweh, spoken over our fear, does what no fortress of our own making ever could. He doesn't just provide safety. He is the safety. And when He speaks, the sirens lose their power.