Have you ever noticed that conversation held over embers predictably takes a deep dive? Like there is some primal connection between stirring cinders, dodging smoke, and talk of God. Or maybe the combination is flame, aged Scotch, and deep theology.
Last October we relocated our fire pit. No longer sequestered in the well fenced backyard, there it evocatively now sits surrounded by a circle of chairs in the driveway where I used to park my car.
Like moths drawn to the light they come: not just invited guests, but dog walkers, joggers, neighbors we haven’t seen in a while and some we haven’t met. Passing by, they stop to pull up a chair. They chat for a bit, or stay late.
That fire pit brazenly extends the warm invitation of community to an increasingly secluded world.
Some nights by the fire I feel a bit like Rev. Casey in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, who used to be a preacher but got “all full up of Jesus” and found himself spending more time just listening to people and finding God there.
I relish being the fire host, which is mostly loading logs and listening. And the more I do, the stronger I feel the alluring summons to a deeper migration; the relocation of that in me which burns fervently in seclusion to the front yard of me.
I bid you also to consider the repositioning of your fire pit?
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