Obsession

Credit: ngader

It starts with a thought.  But for some reason, instead of getting swept out of our minds when we close up shop at the end of the day, shutting our eyes to go to sleep, it catches on some rough edge of a floorboard. It gets snagged there, unnoticed at the back of our minds.  It stays all night, and the next morning, it begins to skulk around.

After a few days, the thought becomes a little more comfortable and begins to wander more freely, mingling with the other thoughts in our minds, even venturing to make an appearance in the front of our minds now and then.  The longer the thought is allowed to stay, the more comfortable and confident it becomes.

Before long, it is a "regular," eventually gets itself hired as the manager of all our thoughts, makes changes on how things are being run, redecorates - the whole nine yards.

Before long, we are obsessed.

I am a kerosene lamp: Part 2

In my last post, I shared a vision I had of being a kerosene lamp.  If you need a refresher, read it here.  

I don't  like to explain the things I write about; I want to provoke thought through what I write.  But as I began to understand more of what this image of the lamp means to me, I felt like I should share both the image and the interpretation, so here goes.  

It makes sense to me that Jesus is the one who lights me like a lamp.  He is the one I have to soak in like the wick soaks in the fuel so it can burn brightly.  And it makes sense that Jesus is the one that lights the lamp.  He is the one that makes my soul come alive.  He gives me purpose and passion.  I understand these parts of the image.

The thing that caught my attention most about the scenario that played out in the vision doesn't make sense to me though.  Jesus' hands were reflecting the light and heat coming off of me, the lamp.  Shouldn't it be the other way around?  Aren't I supposed to be reflecting Him to everyone around me?

I am a kerosene lamp.

Credit: Pete

I am a kerosene lamp sitting on the worn wooden bedside table in the log cabin where I spent so much time as a child.

There is a white quilt with faded pink flowers spread over the bed.  There is a small wood stove in the corner.  There is a yellowed doily on the table under the lamp.

He comes and removes the glass chimney from the base which is already filled with fuel.  The wick has been soaking in the kerosene-filled base for days and is saturated now.  He turns the knob, causing the wick to uncoil like a snake does to the tune of a charmer's flute.

He lights the wick.  The flame rushes, crackles.

He does not replace the chimney to disperse the light and heat.  Instead, He cups His hands to surround the flame.  His hands do not block the light and heat in; they spread the light and heat to the whole room, the whole house.

I am warm, and bright, and burning.  I am alive, and He has done it.

So, what does all this mean?  Read about it here.

A Memory: Peter Fields' Cows

We are driving, more like drifting, down what is affectionately know as "the Mountain," but which is really just the BIG hill in the middle of the Island where we live.  Headed toward town, perhaps to school, or to get to my summer job at the ice cream window, we let gravity pull us down past trees, and plots of farm land.  Mailboxes, and only a very few stop signs, are scattered along the roadside.  I roll down the window and stick out my hand, weaving it in and out of the strong air current like so many other girls in so many other cars on so many other sunny days have done. 

Disclaimer: Although the resemblance is striking, this photo was not taken on the actual road I'm talking about, but on another Northern Ontario road of the same name, the 10th Side Road.
Credit: Michael Gill

A Memory: Home Church

(Further thoughts about having Eternity in Our Hearts.) 

Isn't it funny how we can go places in our minds, even places that don't exist anymore?
Even without closing my eyes, I can go to the church building I grew up in...


Credit: Sarah Joy