I dreamt of fire again last night.
I was standing in the basement doorway
Of an ancient mountain lodge,
Gazing at the verdant green of the deep forest.
The summer rain was gentle
And the overhang of the porch above sheltered me.
I sensed a flash of light and warmth from behind.
Turning I saw the room in flames.
My hair floated around me in the rising heat.
The fire licked and danced and curled
The fire raged but did not consume.
Its delicacy belied its inherent power.
There was Peter
There was Augustine
There was Julian and Teresa of Avila
There was Martin Luther and Martin Luther King
There was consumed my half-finished manuscript on the desk and
There was nothing left of my dreams but drifting ash.
My attempts to put out the flames were futile.
They danced away mockingly only to burn the very water I threw.
As suddenly as they appeared, the flames evanesced.
There was no damage except my manuscript.
The aftermath brought me to focus on the water and the flame.
The burning brought into greater contrast the writing on the walls
And colors were brighter and stronger
Their witness burned my eyes.
On this day I too am to burn.
I am to live in this post-Pentecost world.
What will this mean for my life?
Who will write the manuscript now?
On this day I am to discover Him,
With love I found Him,
And with His love, I will serve.