It is night, and family night. And building a fire means family.
We crumple up the paper; it means cleaning out old things of our hearts, and letting them provide fuel for the fire’s growth. All things can be used. Then come smaller sticks. They are wobbly and crooked and every which way and that, and Dad places them on the paper, across, across, across again.
I hand Dad the larger wood. I love this wood, it is strong. But it all builds together. All parts need and feed one another. Just like our family. The spark of the flame, the feeding of our souls comes from each family member.
And we build. And there is beauty in this building.