Like a large log pulled from a raging brush pile, I felt my faith fall from the fire.  A fire that I no longer wanted to be a part of.  One that seemed bent on spreading like the wind and wreaking havoc on the world around it, rather than its intended purpose of life giving warmth, hope and security.  My fire was hot and for a while, my embers glowed and burned, but alone in a damp cold world there was seemingly no way to keep them lit. My deep blue flame and hot orange flickers slowly cooled to a glowing red ember, and white ash.  Charred from my time in the fire.  I was spent.  Used and seemingly unuseful.  I could no longer light or produce flame.  

I lay there disheartened. Cold. Forgetting for a while what my purpose was.  Confused, perhaps I was never intended to burn anyway.  Perhaps the fire was no place for a log like me.  And yet, I wanted to burn, I longed for the flame, but I was wary of contributing to a fire that was more destruction than in granting life.  I wanted to be a lit with possibilities for a future, a flame where those who found themselves near it were welcomed, invited to take shelter from the harshness of the world.  Perhaps a fire to use it for cooking sustenance to carry on their rambling journey.  Or maybe just to enjoy it for its inherent beauty and warmth.  To sit. To ponder. To watch and just be.

Yet my log, now alone,  was too large, too strong, too forceful to be reckoned with.  I was not a twig for the flame, but a thick trunk to be used for the long burn.  The wind was still howling or not present at all, providing no hope to light again. The dampness of the earth provided no hope for kindle and I had no desire to roll back to the raging fire I had fallen from. 

My only hope was to start again. Somehow on my own now, with the skills I knew of what was needed for a flame.  And so I began the arduous task of chopping my log into pieces. Dissecting it into sizes that could catch spark.  Painful, but necessary if I wanted to burn again.  I had to deconstruct to be made to burn. Finding kindling to add hidden in unusual places, where I hadn’t looked before.  I would never again be what I was, but I had the potential to be what I wanted to be.  

I was no longer engulfed with smoke and overcome with the cackling roar of an uncontrolled blaze that was almost unaware of it’s destruction and oblivious to the cloud of ash in it’s wake.  I dared to be a light, a place of warmth.  A spot where one could rest, and find solace and cheer amidst the storms of life.  A place where others could also be lit without being burned by an uncontrolled rage.  A fire where there was space to gather around and find fellow friends.  A fire that beckoned one to  sit, to gaze into the flame in wonder, or a spot to stargaze and hear the night groans of the forest.  A fire for all.