laurabethanybThe conversation and the coals were glowing; not ablaze – just glowing enough to keep the heart and body warm and full of anticipation.
Toward the beginning of February, I took part in a Lectio meditation. There are many versions of these, but in this case, we took a passage of scripture and with each reading, we looked at the passage through different lenses and with different intentions. (It’s amazing how differently we see even the most familiar things when we push ourselves to look at them from a different perspective.)
The passage was from the Gospel of John, chapter 21, verses 1-15. It is a few days after the resurrection of Jesus. The disciples are still hanging around, mostly scratching their heads, wondering what to do next. Peter suggests they go fishing. Jesus appears on the beach…after catching nothing all night, all of a sudden, the disciples in the boats catch a lot of fish…Peter puts on his clothes and jumps in the water (yes, you read that right)…and they cook fish by a fire and enjoy a meal together.
One of the prompts for one of the readings is to place myself in the story. Usually, I would try and look through the eyes of Peter or John or one of the women likely to be waiting on the beach with them. I took a different route this time. I assumed the role of a stranger sitting on the beach with a fire. I’m not sure why I was there this early in the morning – perhaps it was a habit to offer the fire for the cooking of fish or the warming of sailors in exchange for a meal? I saw this man, who seemed to appear from nowhere, give some direction to a barren boat which was suddenly flush with fish! I watched as the buffoons on not one, but two boats tried to get the catch to shore – one of them abandoning his crew and swimming straight through the cold morning surf.
“I bet he wished he could have walked,” I thought.
As they made their way back with the haul, the mysterious man came and asked to join me by the fire. We chatted for a moment until the fisherman arrived with food. The women and some children, who had been waiting for them on the beach, gathered with us as the quiet chatting evolved into a steady murmur. There was plenty to eat for all!
“This is what I love about fires”, I thought, “the community and nourishment that they attract!”.
I noticed the flames had cooled down and there were only black, red, and orange embers lining the pit. I reached down to add fuel to the fire and revive the blaze, but the Man stopped me and just said, “Tend to the embers.”
Somehow, I knew exactly what he meant. Keep it alive. Keep it growing. It doesn’t need to be big and loud, drawing a lot of attention – just enough to cook the food, warm the wet fisherman, and light up the circle.
A few moments later, the Man had an odd conversation with the swimmer – something about feeding his sheep. He didn’t strike me as a shepherd, but they both eventually seemed to be on the same page.
I kept the conversation and the coals glowing; not ablaze – just glowing enough to keep the heart and body warm and full of anticipation.
Off the beach and back in the cold winter of Indiana, I understood that “Tending the Embers” isn’t a project or a moment or an idea; I’m taking it as a mandate to care for what is in front of me. To build things – my life, my home, my ministry, my creative works – for the sake of nourishment and well-being, not for platforms or attention.
It’s time to get back to work.