It was a cold morning, not unusual for February in Maine. When I went downstairs it was 50° and I knew I needed to pump up the fire. I opened the door of the wood stove and saw only ashes. Well, that made sense since we’d gone to bed more than eight hours before. I wanted to coax the flames to life so I could enjoy their comfortable warmth.
I was hoping there were sufficient embers to promote the process, but I wasn’t sure. I crumpled up three or four pieces of newspaper and set them in the fire box. Then I laid a few smaller pieces of wood on top of them. It didn’t take too long for some wispy tendrils of smoke to begin to make their way out of my carefully laid “fire bait”. I watched and waited for several more minutes, but the newspapers didn’t seem to want to flare up.
Out of frustration I finally took a lit match and touched it to the edges of the paper I was using as a starter. Sure enough the newspaper caught and I sat on the floor smiling into the hint of light in the black interior of the wood stove. There wasn’t a lot of heat being thrown my way, but the dancing reds and oranges and yellows cheered my heart. I was pleased with the progress I was making.
It didn’t take long for the quick flare up to die down and eventually become a barely smoldering mess. There was even a lump of unburned newspaper stubbornly sitting in the ashes staring at me. The tiny, shimmering sparks on its blackened surface seemed to mock my efforts. I could feel the determination to see this job to a roaring end rise up in my heart.
I couldn’t let frustration lead me to defeat. No way was I going to wake Curt up to ask for help. I reminded myself that I was a mature woman with lots of experience with camp fires. Besides, I couldn’t allow myself to be overcome by such a simple chore. I knew that I just needed to bear down and put my whole self into it. I got down to business.
I moved away the rubble of my first attempt and hunted for the glowing embers that had made themselves known earlier. I used a poker to gather together these reminders of the previous night’s fire. I carefully laid some fresh balls of newspaper around them to increase the possibility of ignition – not too tight and not too loose. Next I erected a teepee shape of kindling, slightly sturdier than the paper, over them.
This time as the newspaper began to show signs of life I added the encouragement of a match. The result was a concentration of flames that licked upward into the next level of fuel. My heart began to believe that I was going to be able to get this thing going after all. I decided I was a pretty good, old Girl Scout. I figured it wouldn’t be long before I’d be warming myself before my very own glowing stove.
When the kindling was ablaze I tenderly placed a couple of pieces of the next size wood into the wood box. I was careful not to smother the flames as I worked. I did my best to arrange the logs so that their “most likely to ignite” side was available to the heat. I didn’t want to go too quickly, but I knew if I waited too long before adding more fuel that wouldn’t be good either. I was sure that all the information I’d stored up about fires would do the trick.
However, all of my best efforts and attention proved insufficient. Even with such a hopeful beginning the fire began to burn lower and lower. I finally gave in to the need for further assistance. I considered using the bellows as a last resort. You see, it ought to be enough to leave the door of the wood stove open to allow oxygen to pass over the fire, out the flue, and up the chimney. A reasonably capable person ought to be able to accomplish this task without the use of an outside accelerant. Reaching for the bellows felt like surrender.
I took stock of the scene in front of me and chose a spot that was already alive and intensely red. I placed the nozzle where the fire-feeding oxygen would prompt the embers to flourish. There was some loose bark just above a particularly promising hot spot. I wanted to apply my efforts where they had a high potential for success. I started squeezing the handles of the bellows together.
I knew that if I worked in a frenzy a quick flame would probably appear. However, I had already experienced the results of that strategy. I set about a steady pace of compressions. I noticed that besides offering a steady flow of oxygen, the regular tempo also made it easier to support the weight of the tool. It started to feel a bit as if I were blowing my own breath directly into the fire. I relaxed into the task at hand.
I noticed that resting on my knees and concentrating solely on the goal set before me was a peaceful feeling. The persistent rhythm of my hands on the bellows provided a routine into which it was easy to settle. Though I was actually in the middle of a project, I didn’t feel particularly stressed or anxious. As a matter of fact, my efforts in and of themselves were already warming my body against the cold around me.
It took sensible and consistently-applied effort, but the fire did spring to life. Flames flowed up from the base and engulfed ever-increasing size logs. As I fed the fire I grew entranced by its leaping and the combinations of color it displayed. Something that started out as a frustrating duty became a joyful occupation. After an hour of careful and constant tending I was able to tell Curt with integrity that the fire was indeed going for the day.
I need to confess though that once the fire was fully established, it was an effort to pull myself away to the responsibilities of the day. I finally headed upstairs to my computer, moving into the coldest room of the house. It would have been far easier to remain in front of the blaze, but there was work to do. I knew I needed to continue to feed the fire to keep the cold at bay. I was determined not to let such a wonderful source of comfort die and to bask in its warmth each time I go to tend it.
I’ve decided that this fire-starting business is as much art as science and requires as much faith as knowledge. I’m thankful for these times of looking more deeply into the events of every day life with the hand of the Holy Spirit on my shoulder.
Hm, did God show me the Downeast version of the parable of the seeds? Luke 8:1-15
Or was He giving me a picture of His work in the Church? Psalm 127
Or was He speaking to me about tending the flame in my own spiritual life? Matthew 6:33
Whatever the answer, God has given me a glimpse and the blessed opportunity to ponder it before Him.
Emmanuel
