Some nights while camping on the Oregon coast, Teckla and I would stay up until the fire burned low. Under a canopy of red elderberry, spruce, and Douglas fir, we would pull our chairs close to the fire as it burned down. Often, we had burned through the firewood, so we threw in twigs, splinters of firewood, and cones to keep the fire burning. The resinous fir and spruce cones sputtered and flamed, giving us a burst of light and warmth. Sparks flew up into the night sky.
Here in Kansas, we are camped in the basement of my son and his wife, Dylan and Vanessa. We have every comfort, and Dylan and Vanessa have shown us every kindness, but because we are still living mostly out of boxes, it feels like camping. We miss our home and our Oregon friends. We are unsettled.
Here the darkness that surrounds us is uncertainty. Our house in Myrtle Point has not yet sold. We have taken some steps to connect with people where we attend church, but such connections take time. Teckla’s memory loss makes the future uncertain. How do we plan?
But Teckla and I pull our chairs closer to the fire. We gather splinters of gratitude and cones of thanksgiving and feed the fire. We thank God for every grandchild’s smile and every sunflower’s bloom. With faltering and thin voices, we sing old hymns and offer desperate prayers that rise like sparks in the night.
