December 21st, Advent Day 25
The New England Winter can be bleak. The sky is often gray and breath hangs suspended like a frozen ghostly mist in the frigid air. In those long dark days, families seek comfort at the hearth, sitting by the fireplace, basking in its warmth and soft orange glow. The crackling flames dance with rhythmic snaps and occasional sputters. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we just sit in reverent silence, transfixed by the endless shapes coming to life before us, lost in thought and the sheer contentment of just being.
But, as all new Englanders know, the fire, although powerful, is also vulnerable. It lives and dies in the space of minutes or hours. In order to keep the flames alive, we must constantly watch, listen, anticipate and tend to its wellness. A sort of winter vigil. And when the flames seem as though they are fading, dying out as it were, we are called to “look after” the fire to ensure that its life-giving warmth remains to sustain us day and night. At times, we simply pull from our nearby store of wood and paper and add what is there to the fire and that is enough to keep things glowing. At other times, when our stores have run out, we must leave the comfort of our inner sanctuary and venture out into the darkness to seek sustenance for the hungry flames.
Walking out into the winter night is at first bracing, but then, there is wonder. The blackness of the sky allows us to see the stars in all their glory. The chill in the air is filled with the unique scent of snow and earth. The silence is beautiful, broken only by the occasional muffled “thump” of wet snow falling from a heavy laden branch into the sea of white. Slowly, we tramp through the snow, each step a challenge. It seems to take so long to get to where we need to be. But get there we must, and get there, we do. We slowly select the best logs…a mix of small and large, ones that are just the right shape and dry enough to to catch fire. We gather our treasures in our arms, carefully cradling them andbracing ourselves for the journey back. Home and hearth look so far away. In the distance, we hear the faint sound of songbirds, hunkering down in the chilly night, startled by our presence but hopeful that we shall remember them in our comings and goings. I listen and promise to return.
As I enter the house again, I kneel by the fire. It is almost silent now, just the barest of glowing embers. No more flames, no embrace of vibrant heat. I fear that I may be too late to revive it to its former glory. But, as I move around the embers and slowly add my treasures from the woods, there is a moment where the sound stops, as though the fire holds its breath. And, then, slowly it comes to life again. I continue to poke, to prod, to move the coals and blow upon the flames to help them grow. My labor is rewarded and the room begins to come alive with newly reborn flames. The firesong crackles in delight. I smile, relieved and at peace.
But my work is yet undone. I get up, move to the kitchen and slowly gather seed from the pantry to venture outside into the chilly darkness one last time. There is silence as I drop my tiny gifts onto the snow and I wonder, have they gone? Again, I worry that I am too late. But, as I turn toward home, out of the quiet, I hear a rustling and a faint flutter. And as I head away, toward my home, they swoop in, singing with gratitude. I smile to myself. My heart is full.
How like our faith, is the fire. God’s love is within us like a flame, filling our hearts with peace and warmth and new life. It sustains us, but also requires that we constantly tend to that lifegiving spark. We must look after our faith by feeding it with unceasing love, through prayer, gratitude and obedience. We must actively seek to serve those who are outside our comfortable spaces, remembering them, honoring them with our compassion and care. We must be willing to bring our treasures to God’s feet and sing joyful songs of thanks and praise, just like the birds whose grateful bodies whistle in exultation for the unexpected gifts delivered on a cold winter night.