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The Difference

I write to remember.

There’s kindling.
And then there’s fire.

The fire is not the kindling.
And I am not God.

Seems like I would not need
To remind myself of the obvious
But I do.

I still think, often,
That I, kindling,
Can spontaneously
Burst into flame
Without a spark
From outside me.

Self-created warmth and beauty.

Same myth as evolution.

Non-life giving birth to life.
Nothing giving birth to something.
The dead resurrecting itself
By its bootstraps.

Kindling giving
Virgin birth
To fire.

God opposes the proud
And gives grace to the humble.
God waits for those
Who wait for Him.

And our God is a consuming fire.

God, like fire from heaven,
Alights where He pleases.
His spark is His to give,
And no man can pry it from Him.

So when I preach my next sermon
Or go to my next elder meeting
Or write my next poem
Or confront my next brother
Or lead my next family devotional
Or wake up.

It is vitally important
That I remember what I am:

I am kindling. Waiting,
Longing for God to spark me.
Dry against dry.
I rustle prayers.

And if fire descends
Then I will burn with joy
And if fire does not descend
I will wait with joy

Like disciples waiting in upper rooms
For God to ignite them.

Tongues of fire
And tongues afire.
Scintillating brilliance
Glory His alone.

And if, and when, God lights me
And sends me forth in
Crackling brilliance

Remember (my soul)
The difference.

I am only
The kindling.

He is the fire.

I write to remember.

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