Many years ago, large packs of wolves roamed the countryside in

In the words of Joseph B. Wirthlin: “Many years ago, large packs of wolves roamed the countryside in Ukraine, making travel in that part of the world very dangerous. These wolf packs were fearless. They were not intimidated by people nor by any of the weapons available at that time. The only thing that seemed to frighten them was fire.” Though on the surface this appears as a tale of wild beasts and ancient travel, its meaning runs deeper: it is a parable of fearlessness, danger, and the protective power of light against darkness.

The origin of this story lies in the lived experiences of the people of Eastern Europe, who for centuries battled the harshness of both nature and history. Wolves, symbols of danger and cunning in folklore, were not easily subdued by mere weapons or human presence. Yet, even in their ferocity, they bowed before the elemental strength of fire—that eternal gift given to humanity, which drove away predators and carved out safety in the wilderness. Wirthlin invokes this image not to recount zoology, but to remind us of the timeless struggle between chaos and order, between darkness and the flame that keeps it at bay.

The lesson of the wolves is that life is often filled with dangers that cannot be fought with ordinary weapons. Just as no spear or blade could truly intimidate the wolves, so too are there trials in life—fear, despair, temptation, cruelty—that resist our usual defenses. But just as the wolves fled before the sight of fire, so too does darkness flee before the presence of light, courage, and truth. Fire, in this sense, becomes not only a physical tool but a symbol of the human spirit, of divine protection, of the strength that pushes back the night.

History gives us a reflection of this truth. Consider the story of the early Christians in Rome. Surrounded by hostility, hunted like prey, they had no armies or weapons to defend themselves. Yet they carried within them the fire of faith, and it was this inner flame that turned aside the darkness of empire. Rome’s cruelty could not extinguish it, just as wolves could not endure the blaze. Over time, the fire of their spirit transformed the very empire that once persecuted them.

Even in secular history, the same lesson appears. When the people of Kyiv faced the Mongol invasions, or later when Ukraine endured the crushing boots of war and famine, survival often depended not merely on steel but on the inner flame of endurance. Whole villages clung to faith, to tradition, to songs and stories passed down by firelight. These intangible flames kept them alive when swords and guns were useless. The wolves of despair and destruction prowled their world, but the fire of spirit preserved them.

Thus, Wirthlin’s words remind us that fire is both literal and symbolic. It is the fire of courage that sends fear fleeing. It is the fire of love that drives back loneliness. It is the fire of truth that scatters lies. In every age, people have faced their own “wolves”—forces that threatened to devour them. And in every age, the only lasting weapon has been the cultivation of fire: the light of character, the warmth of community, the flame of faith.

The lesson for us is clear: tend your fire. Do not rely only on outward tools, for they may fail you in the face of life’s wolves. Instead, build the fire within—through study, through service, through devotion, through courage. Let your fire burn so brightly that danger cannot endure its presence. And when others are cold and afraid, share your flame, as ancestors shared torches around the ancient roadways of Ukraine, to guide travelers safely through the night.

Thus, Joseph B. Wirthlin’s tale is not just about wolves—it is about us. The world is filled with dangers, fearless and unyielding, but nothing is more powerful than the fire within. Guard it. Feed it. Carry it into the wilderness of life. For the wolves of darkness will always circle, but before the light of fire, they must always retreat.