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Busy, busy days. Lots of readin', ritin' and rithmatic. Well, not so much rithmatic, but loads of readin' and ritin'. Cold days, too. Marrow freezing cold. Wind that gets into every crack and crevice. To combat the chill, Amy and I lit a fire. Not on the kitchen table or anything...in the fireplace. I do love a fire. As the flames died down, I sat in the darkness on the floor in front of the fireplace and watched the coals. I used to do that at my grandparent's house, when I was a wee lad. There's something hypnotic about glowing coals...they move with an almost liquid pulse of orange light. The light swells when you blow on them, as if they're consciously responding. I saw a great metaphor in those coals...a symbol of the church, seemingly dying in a secular world but always able to light a fire if we just add the fuel. Most church people know a parish or congregation that's a coal, a remnant of a more fiery history. If the coal still has heat, it can reignite. If it's too cool, then all we can do is add oxygen and let it shine as bright as possible while it lasts. I wish I could write something more intelligent, but I'm just too tired. |
