It’s dark. I am writing beside an ancient fire carrying me away to the primal story of Abraham’s dying hike, he carrying the fire and knife, Isaac the wood. Many a meeting with God involves fire and mine this morning can be added to the list. If there was an altar out back and if I had been called to lay my son Aaron upon it I am confident I would fail…I would carry the fire in bare hands, the knife hidden away in my pack, and hike away off to the other side of yonder but I would waiver, the fire, burning my hands off my arms and feeding a fire that burned up the earth, I would stand to wait for intervention. Reading the ancient story of my father Abraham, while sitting by the fire, knowing anew how sincere will be the meeting when he tells me personally of his faith. This primeval kiln carries me away again.
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