The last couple of mornings have been in the 30s so I’ve been building a fire in the wood stove instead of cranking up the heater. There’s something very cheery about a cozy fire heating my home as dawn creeps through the windows, plus it keeps my PG&E bill down. Out of necessity, I’m getting pretty good at this task that Jack always felt was his duty to perform. Sitting before this morning’s fire, reading, praying, and watching the rivulets of flame dance very slowly within the stove, my mind roamed back thousands of years to our spiritual forefather Abraham. For him, building a fire meant warmth, a hot meal, safety, light for early morning and evening tasks, and a sense of “home” for the wandering vagabond who left the land of his fathers for a place he knew nothing about.
For nearly 48 years, I lived with light at the flick of a switch, bright street lamps lighting my way on the highways and byways, and shopping areas so well lit at night the sun might as well have been shining in the heavens. Certainly there was no hope of seeing the stars overhead. Out here in rural Placerville the nights are black unless the moon is up, and with the frequent power outages (two so far since fall began), even the indoors can look like pitch.
It took a long time after our move for me to get used to this level of outdoor darkness but now I enjoy it. There is a unique silence to a black sky filled with stars that transcends my fear of the night. Indoors is a different story, however. When the power goes off, or even when simply making a trip to the frig for cold water in the middle of the night, I want a nightlight, flashlight, or candlelight to pierce the darkness and illumine my way. Why is that?
There is a metaphor here that I didn’t know existed before Jack died. While my soul mate was alive, he was my strength and security in ways unrelated to his waning physical strength. He was my unwavering rock, my solid foundation. If you’ve ever lost a loved one you know that when they die, the inner space they inhabited is irrevocably vacated. Nowadays, when my interior is dim (faint, shadowy), the lions roar in their cages and there is a great deal of room for rumbling trepidation.
Staring into the dancing firelight, an “Aha moment” emerged. While my spiritual foundation has been Christ for many years, Christ has not been the solid rock undergirding my day-to-day existence. Just as important to this realization was the immediate movement from head to heart and soul of what it means to be a temple where the Holy Spirit dwells (1 Cor 3:16). Didn’t God reveal Himself in myriad times and ways through fire? The burning bush…the fire by night guiding Moses and his throng through the wilderness…the licks of fire alighting overtop people’s heads on Pentecost…. Isn’t that same flame indwelling me?
I have no doubt that in the days and weeks ahead, I will continue to face my inner darkness and the lions that dwell there. (Don’t we all have a beast or two, pinned up in our innermost being?) Sometimes I sense they are lunging against their restraints to seize the void that Jack once occupied. Not going to happen! The empty spaces within will be filled instead with my ever-present savior, friend and brother, Christ Jesus the Lord. How do I know this? Because GREAT is He who is within me.
“To Him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before His glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore!” —Jude 24-25