Trying to follow the Fire

Okay, so I am a bit groggy this morning. Isaac snuggled his freezing legs up to mine in the bed, and I actually asked him for five more minutes like I was about to have to get up for school. (What a dread thought — a sudden panic that my tightest jeans aren’t dry.)

I am awake enough, however, to read that the day before yesterday I must have been totally out of it to write such a blog. You have mercy, I know, so I’m not worried, but do let me correct myself. Sour Patch Kids are good, but I’d much rather gnaw on my own kids — you know that yummy knee pudge. And, most importantly, I do not dare usually read the word REST so out of context.

Yesterday, I was thinking about the Shekinah Glory, God’s leading fire by night in the wilderness. They knew they could rest if His fire was still there, and they knew to get up and move if the fire started to go. I love this idea of Peace being where the fire is. I can be moving miles down the road, sweating from the heat, and still be in His rest, His will, His goodness.

I have wished for a burning bush to command a performance, and I have wished that a fire would blaze up from the university and call me back to my poetry, but I’ve never seen His fire. I do know that the day I first believed, a fire lit up so big inside me that I’ve wondered why I haven’t combusted, and I know that I have spent chunks of time as a near zombie, burning at such a lull that my breath would have gone from me had I tried to move on my own.

This morning, my sink full of dishes,
my floor of toys, a towering of clothes
in the living room chair,


the fire is here.

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