We’re all different, right? Hand-made by the Creator. Special, unique, distinct.
So how we relate to that Creator will be different, hand-made, special, unique, distinct.
Not in every way dissimilar, but a relationship all our own.
No one else’s.
Why don’t we teach that? (Why don’t I learn that?)
The other day, the idea was put into my mind that I’m not an evergreen (if I were a tree, that is). I lose my leaves in the winter, almost too literally. I revive when the earth does.
More on that in at a later date.
Trees. Wood. Fire.
That was the train I caught.
Fire is fire, but it reacts differently, smells differently, smokes differently, warms differently, exists differently depending on what kind of wood is being burned and in what arrangement the wood is placed.
Our lives are fire. God provides the spark; we provide the fuel, the wood. He IS the spark. We ARE the fuel, the wood.
The more me I give Him, the bigger, warmer, brighter, etc. the fire becomes. We usually get this far in understanding fairly easily. (1)
But we think other peoples’ fires are odd, or better, than our own. They’re just different.
Because of my personal history and personality, my fire, my relationship with God, looks like a lot of Scripture reading and teaching and service with fewer long sessions of prayer. If I talk to God for a long time, I start to get self-centered and frustrated with myself that I get self-centered. I talk to Him in spurts, like a continual but slow conversation throughout a day, or week, or whatever.
He shows me things in the Bible, in teaching, in service, and in my blurt-style of conversation. Sometimes He calls me to a long period of prayer, but He knows me too well to ask that of me consistently. Maybe one day.
He also shows me pictures. Pretty often actually, especially if I ask Him to. By pictures I really mean visual analogies of things, like the fire I’m describing. I just say pictures.
All these things are the smoke of the fire of Our relationship. If I change the fuel, I change the fire. Your smoke is different than mine, and that’s okay. There are glories in the differences.
If I change the arrangement, I change the fire. This is my big struggle: transplanting the wood pieces to a different place, while keeping the arrangement the same. And yes, I want to keep the arrangement because it was good and pleasant for me and others. Possible solutions: steady, calloused hands and singed eyebrows; remaining where I am; patience enough to rebuild the fire after transplantation. The first and last seem most likely.
(1) Remember footnotes? This is one. See the corresponding "(1)" before reading this.
I usually get amused and warmed and consumed by the fire that is currently in my being. I forget to keep fueling it and get confuddled when it wanes or goes out. That, or I get bored with my little fire and start thinking that it isn't worth it.
If you've ever gotten good at something, particularly sports, or if you've ever loved roller coasters, you know that at some point the old stuff just doesn't cut it anymore. You've got to get better, to learn more tricks, more skillz yo, to ride something bigger faster higher and twistier to get the same awed joy sense you had at first.
The same with my fire. If I get bored with it, it's a sure sign that I need a bigger fire. Bigger fire, more fuel. More fuel, more of me I gotsta burn. And there's so much left of me.
So much that I haven't explored of myself, that I haven't had opportunity to see yet.
That day is coming.
I fear that it is here.
