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I looked up from the book--out the window--a chill fall day speckled with falling leaves, the branches of trees waving in the wind letting go of the summer green in splashes of yellow and red, while fragile china blue rested its edges gently on the hills. He stood loading the half-rusted, half-black burning barrel with magazines, newspapers, old can labels--words, more than we could've ever read. Then leaning the match blazed, flickering for a moment, a wisp of smoke rising from its blackened end. He struck another and sheltered it gingerly in the cup of his hand. The amber flame caught the edge of last week's Time. Shiny paper blackened, curling slowly. Newsprint turned from black to red hot. The fire rose blazing orange. A fragment was caught up on heat warped air--rising--ash floating upwards into the blue. |
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Dad stood staring into the fire, intently, as if the flames held some meaning written in letters of spark and color. Distracted for a moment by blades of brown grass catching flame, he ground them out with muddied boot while trying not to singe his hair. I wonder what he was thinking about while he gazed through the fire to memories I couldn't see. Maybe he thought of his mother, of how difficult it must have been to leave her to plow the long miles of waves to Japan. "I'll not see you again, son. But I want you to go." He left that porch behind in the obscurity of clouding memory, an old home, and then receiving a telegram, "she's gone"--sister telling brother that mother is gone. Or maybe he thought of Mamma, of her brilliant laugh that always brightened a dark mood. She had that infectious giggle, brown eyes sparkling mischievously--until tears streaked down all our faces. Or he might have remembered that sunny, blue sky of Sunday. He came to the hospital and sat with her, holding her familiar hand that had dreamily stroked his hair in quiet moments. I saw him seated in the lobby--so all alone. "She's gone," he said. We stood blankly outside her room in the hall, hemorrhaging bloody tears inside. He had held her hand as she slipped heavenward, carried on the hope of words sung to her in quavering voices earlier that morning by Eleanor and me, "Have you seen Jesus my Lord; He's here in plain view." He again leaned in to stamp out burning blades of green and brown, jumping back as more newspapers took to flame. Maybe he thought of the spring when we set four chairs on the road between Aunt Lilly's house and ours. No one wanted to sit. But then after coaxing, arguing and apologies husband and sisters sat in silence and looked down over the valley. The field of hay just growing green stretched down past the barn to where the trees sheltered the creek. Maples and alders and firs clustered on its banks, while above stands of dark green firs stood rising together on the Black hills--made alive in the golden light of a spring sun. Dad read from Romans: "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." And then lifting the green box, he opened it and reached in with bare hand and took the ashes and began spreading them over the newly growing hay. We watched him walking down the valley, throwing out ashes to the left and right--as if he was sowing precious seed. The ash was born on a gentle breeze carried downward in small cumulous clouds. The fire was slowly dying; no paper left to revive its yellow, orange, and red. He lingered as the fire lingered, watching it slowly fade. And when it began to smolder with grey smoke twisting up, he walked away. We buried Dad on a dew-drenched Saturday morning. On the grave lay a small green box with his ashes. After the words spoken by our pastor, we each took roses, putting one next to his ashes and one on Mamma's gravestone. The sky was on the verge of rain. The following week we stayed with Mom at the farm. I noticed that a lot of paper had been stacked up, ready to be burned. I carried it out of the house into the bright sun of day, leaves drifting down from trees, a clear crystalline china blue sky overhead. The half-rusted, half-black burning barrel stood empty and damp. Wadded up newspapers and magazines filled the space. A match blazed, then flickered--smoldering black hitting paper. I struck another match, sheltering it carefully in familiar hand, and as it gained color, I held it to the edge of an old Reader's Digest. The flame was temperamental, maybe because of the dampness of the air. The newsprint grew black. Shiny paper curled in smoldering grey. Another match leaped to color, igniting the edge of Modern Maturity. Orange, red, and yellow consumed words and pictures, jumping higher and higher. The fire grew warm. I gazed into its color and sparks. I saw familiar hands and a familiar face, my hands, and my face--yet they are the hands and face of my father--and the hands and face of my mother. The fire transforms words of black and white into Words of spark and color. They are familiar hands and a familiar face, being transformed by Fire into the image of Christ. A fragment of fragile grey ash is caught on heat warped air and is lifted heavenward.
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