Blue flames fade to orange as the fire before me begins to die.  Singed bark leaps off the logs, falling under the grated andiron and onto the stone below.  My eyes are captivated by the dancing flames that crackle and waltz as if intertwined by love and destiny.

 

Breaking my gaze away, I turn briefly to stoke the dwindling embers, stirring them that they may be engulfed in the flames the fire burns with.  I return the screen to breast of the fireplace and lean, ever so delicately, into its warm embrace.

 

A handmade quilt rests in my lap, garnering all the warmth from the fire under its cloth.  I adjust its folds, trapping in the heat, and I take a deep breath in.  The fire now roars behind me and the small of my back soaks up its warmth.  My body is warm, but my heart feels cold.

 

Where has the love gone?

 

I tilt my head back, eyes closing and skin tightening around my jawline.  Maybe I am meant to be alone.

 

My once blue eyes have now dulled to gray, much like the once cobalt-colored flames now rest in colors between faded apricot and aged bronze.  Light has left them.  Passion and desire have evaded my gaze and my heart for so long.  Hope in the future now dwindles as an ember that has fallen precariously far away from the wood.  Do I even want marriage?

 

Scarce is the thought of romance, but many are the thoughts of the future.  My eyes brighten and shine when looking forward to missions and ministries that are opening to me, yet my heart seldom finds space for excitement that is found in true love and sweet marriage.

 

I pause.  Is there something wrong with me?  I quiver, although I am not cold.  I shake, but it is not for lack of warmth.  Surely, there must be something wrong with me.

 

My hand travels up my head, removing the warm winter hat that was resting snuggly atop.  Wild wavy hair falls out and down my shoulders.  It is unkempt, much like my heart often feels.  A soft botanical smell wafts through the room as I finger through my hair, releasing a kind femininity into the air.  I wonder if my heart should be the same.

 

I ponder that for a moment, but only for a moment, for my eyes are quickly drawn to the dying fire once more.

 

“Will my heart be just,” I ponder aloud as I tend to the fire.  “Will my heart, once it is let down out of what holds it back, release a softness, a sweetness, and a kindness to those who sit in its presence?”

 

I ask my empty room, but I hear no response outside of the crackling of the fire.  I ask, and the silence was my answer.

 

I feel my heart bound up by trials and traumas, unwilling to free itself for fear of the elements that might seek to steal its warmth.  My heart, much like my head once was, is covered and bound.  It is bound, and although liberating it would seem to be as simple as removing my hat: my covering, I cannot find the courage to do so.

 

I have never been one to find myself entrapped in the casings of frivolous love, for all it took was once to ruin me with the fear of loss or rejection.  My eyes were once crystalline blue.  Full of life and love, they held entire oceans in their depths, lapping warm and inviting waters at their shores.  They were once sun-soaked beaches, but they now resemble rainy autumn days.

 

I tell myself as I gather the wood for the fire that I do not need a man.  As I relight it and kindle the flames, I tell myself that it is best to be alone.  As I sit in the warmth that I have created, I am content. I tell myself that I am content, but part of me is not convinced of this.  I am content, but my spirit is not.

 

My wild and unkempt heart fights.  I see a baby and I long to see my womb filled, but my heart fights my spirit.  A man’s courting hand grazes mine and something in me says to hope for a future.  I don’t, but I can feel that something inside of me does.

 

A civil war rages within, claiming my peace and my assuredness with it.  Some days, I am certain that I only want to be alone, yet others, like tonight, speak to my spirit and raises doubt in my position.

 

I fought so hard for so long to have a desire for marriage.

 

I remember when I was but a child, my father would read a Shel Silverstein book to me every night.  “The Missing Piece” became my favorite read.  I didn’t see my father often, but whenever I did, I begged of him to read me that book.

 

Every night, my father would tuck me into bed and turn on the light in the closet, sitting down on the edge of the bed with my beloved book.  He would read and the story would come alive; my heart for my father would come alive.

 

Even as a little girl of four or five years old, I was in love.  I loved the story and the way that he told it.  He felt like my missing piece.

 

I loved my father so much that I wanted to marry him.  He would read the story to me and I would tell him how I wanted to be with him when I was older.  I was encapsulated in love and I didn’t want it to end; to my young mind, that’s what marriage was.

 

I remember knowing that marriage was all about love and nothing else.  I knew that if you loved someone, you married them.  I didn’t recognize relation or rank in that, because I saw marriage in the most innocent of ways: you marry the one that you love.

 

Now, a broken and cynical heart sees marriage as anything but.  My hurting heart only sees the loss, the pain, and the risk.  It sees all the sacrifices and all the compromises.  It sees death, and only death prevailing.

 

Somewhere in my unraveling over the years past, in heartbreak paired with the death of dreams and relationships, love in marriage was lost.

 

Somewhere in my story, my heart stopped identifying marriage with love and started identifying it with loss.

 

It is only now, on the heels of my silver jubilee— my twenty fifth birthday— that I recognize the mistake that has been made and wonder if it is too late to correct it.

 

Quivering breaths leave my lungs and tears pool up in my watering eyes.  I swallow my breath and bite my tongue in remembrance.  What happened?  Where did it go wrong?

 

My mind flips from memory to memory, recalling failed relationships and the brokenness that surrounded them.  To say it was any one experience or any one person would be narrow and foolish.  My life is a collection of people and places— my trauma is no different.

 

At the end of the day, my folly is found in the belief that marriage would ensnare me rather than liberate me.  I was so afraid that marriage would trap me that I allowed fear to trap me instead.

 

Yet the fear of entrapment encompasses so much of my life.  Fear of commitment raids my storehouses, bundling up what I’ve worked so hard to earn and robbing me of it.

 

I look around, observing all the pieces and parts of my life that have been consumed by fear.  Fear of marriage, fear of ministry, fear of moving, fear of changing— they are all a tree born out of the same roots: fear of being trapped in commitment and the fear of failure.

 

I pause once again.  Thoughts have eaten up so much of my time that the fire behind me no longer burns.  Hot embers make a bed on the grate; heat still pulses from their coals, but it doesn’t emanate like burning flames would.

 

Hot glowing embers sit and await their fate: will they be stirred and live or will they be left to die?

 

The embers of my heart wonder the same.  Will I stir the urgings of my spirit or will I leave them to harden and die?  Will flaming passion overtake me or will cold complacency?  Will there be fire once again? 

 

I sit back, eyes large and heart pounding.  It is time to choose.  What will I choose?

 

I quickly grab a log and toss it into the fireplace.  Hovering over the cooling coals, I blow.  I blow, blow, and blow in the hopes that one will kiss the bark in front of it and light it ablaze with heat and with hope.

 

I blow on the embers and they burst into life.  If they sit unprovoked, they will wither and die, so I blow, and they catch, and the fire is once again restored.

 

Much like that, when we blow the breath of life on a dream, even dying coals are brought back to life.

 

So many dreams in my life have sat alone in the fireplace: flames no longer burning and hope dwindling and dying with every passing moment.  Cold, circumstances, and life overtake them, yet still there are embers to be fanned.  My dreams sit, biding their time until the breath of life that dwells within blows over them.

 

My dreams sit like embers, waiting for the right moment and right conditions to catch ablaze again: conditions of faith.

 

Have faith in your fire.  Whether it’s marriage like me, or ministry, or a calling that you’re afraid to step into, know that faith alone will restore your fire back to you.  Reignite the flames of passion within by simply saying yes— when the embers are all that are left of a once great hope, have faith, and say yes to God’s breath blowing on the coals.

 

Hope in that vision might seem dwindling, desire even more so, but it is never too late.  Say yes.  Lean over your spiritual fireplace and allow the breath of the Holy Spirit to blow over your situation. 

 

You are not trapped by your decisions.  Do not allow your fire to die for fear of being encased in something that you have committed to.  There is nothing that you can do that the Lord cannot undo.

 

Whether it be a marriage that needs restoration or a heart that needs to be restored to the desire for marriage, blow.  Whether it’s a child that’s left home in the worst of ways or a parent that has given up on relationship, believe.  Whether it’s a calling to mission work or a calling to a new ministry outside of your comfort level— stoke the embers.  Fight what the devil says is inevitable.  Believe.  Blow.  Bring life.

 

Fan the flames of your dreams until they catch fire once again.  It is not too late, nor is it too dead to breathe life back into again.  Go claim your dreams.  Go pick up that laptop and finish writing that book.  Go reunite with your children.  Go purchase that plane ticket.  All you must do is believe that the fiery desire will once again engulf you and light you up in the glory of what is to come.  Good will always come.  Fire will always come.

 

Go.  Restore the Fire.