Friday, February 21, 2014

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.

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