The mist pads slowly off our small Niagara, like a grey kitten I saw once at the top of the real Niagara. It lies like a thin blanket over the startling green fields. And the tree tips, like lit candles, brandish their autumn flames above. Kindled.

I am in the habit of notecards covering the RPM field on my dash. Different days, different passages. It's one habit I have no intention of breaking. Sometimes it is my lifeline, sometimes it is my morning thought.

Today's passage was memorized six years ago, but a little review now and then was the author's original intention you see:

"I remind you to kindle afresh the gift which is in you by the laying on of hands."
II Timothy 1.6

And so this morning as I watch the burning abase, the crumbling of life and green, and now orange, I wonder how it is that kindling is the thing that brings back life--that makes it fresh. I think back to the hands that have been laid on me--more numerous than I remember, more precious than I can describe--and I think that if only they knew how their gifts have gone through the fire. Each and every one.

We mark them. We write them down. We keep journals and papers and margins and mental notes. We know it was the voice of God.

But we don't see it happening.
We see it dying.

We see all those high hopes and real expectations brought to a place where we use them as wood for our sacrifice--they are our only real expressions of worship (Romans 12.1)--and we watch them burn over and over again.

We watch that great, green life ebb into golden flame and fall to the ground. We watch those things we've marked as the Voice of God, the gift from the laying on of hands, the prophetic word of the Church for our lives, we watch them ebb into timid sacrifices, and finally empty them into the hands of the original Creator who knows the original design.

This is why we kindle. This is why our gifts, our words, and our design are kindling--the great fire starter. It is His design to make all things used pass away and make all things new.

Even the things which seem fine just as they are.

I drink my morning cup slowly. Breathing the last of this warm, autumn air. It placates me, soothing my ruffled feathers, bedding me down slowly for the long winter.

My bare feet curl in Indian style on the side porch rocker and I watch the wind grant peeks of blue in a patchwork of grey, green, white, and brilliant orange. I am autumn. And it is me.

She asks me why yesterday, in the car, and I tell her it is because of the colors. My favorites. The dark, heavy, northern blue sky, the russet orange of the trees, and that surprising green backdrop. That is why I am autumn I tell her. Because these colors are my favorite.

But this morning I am autumn because I am impatient, rushing the process, thinking that the quicker all of me can die, the faster winter will set in and then leave. I am preparing for spring.

Two night ago I say to a friend, "You know me. I don't sit around twiddling my thumbs, waiting. I can't abide the idea of biding my time." But this season seems to be just that.

Sow with a view toward righteousness. Reap in accordance with kindness. Break up your fallow ground, for it is time to seek the Lord until He comes to rain righteousness on you.

Hosea 10:12

And this year the breaking has happened, hurting every part of my person, touching every hardened place in my ground, crumbling it all into small soil. And after the sowing has taken place, seeds pushed into the soft earth, the earth closes over with its promise of protection. After that, I hunker down, letting the air placate me for the long wait.

And we wait.

I've said it a couple of times and I might say it a few more:

There have been times in my life when the two pennies I had to my name were so precious, so dear, that I had their shape and texture memorized. I could name the date they were minted and describe the color of the coppery green. In my poverty those pennies were my crowning glory.

Then there are seasons, which I haven't yet experienced, but know must exist, where riches are in abundance. Sitting in a chest full of nondescript gold--where every edge fades into another edge, every link is joined to a coin and every coin is touched by a crown. So much richness, so much treasure, so much stuff, that there are no words to describe it all. Just sit and bask.

If you can forgive the references to monetary surplus and put this in spiritual terms--this is how I think of my life right now.

There have been seasons of spiritual depletion, where the smallest nugget from the longest sermon is held tightly in my fist. Seasons where I ruminate on the same passage of scripture for months and months, so determined to glean something somewhere. There have been seasons where I have held my two cents worth of spiritual food on my plate refusing to fully eat for fear that it would be my last.

And then there is now: A season where every sermon, every class, every conversation, even the hard ones, even those which force me to give up, turn around, grow up, or stare down, is richness in abundance. I've been asked so many times recently what the Lord is teaching me and the answer is this, really:

I don't know. I can't put it into words. The gold has shone too brightly to differentiate between small lessons and great ones, between small worth and great worth. It has set too heavily in the chest of my mind and heart to lift out for casual observance. It stores up for me heavenly treasures, the sort that even I can't name or quantify.

All I know is that suddenly, in the face of monetary poverty, I'm basking in richness.

Qualifying was in the air tonight.

We live in art. It is in the paint chips on the table, passionate discussions about color and opinions about everything. Art sleeps in the baby grand in the living room, and it is where we do our living, at night, with candles and one another. Paintings hang on the walls, treasures from church rummage sales, attics, and beginning painting classes. We make art with our words, weaving wit through our dinner conversation and morning passings. Art swims in our heads and leaves the tangible expression somehow void of the original intention.

Tonight art gathers around the piano and shows off its qualified talents. She hasn't sung that since high school, he hasn't played that since his last recital, she's losing her touch, she has a cold, I only play by ear, he missed a measure, can we go back and try that again. To get it perfect. Or at least acceptable.

To our ears. To our eyes. To our limited understanding of the original intention.

We qualify our art in this house--because we are harsh judges of the final outcome, often forgetting that excellence falls behind the scenes. Forgetting that invention is for the consumers, not the creators.

I tell my writing students tonight that I do not expect perfection, or even almost so. I expect that we work, and here I ask if one can recite a passage about it. He volunteers and I like the version he's memorized: "Whatever you do, do it heartily, as unto the Lord." Here I say that I desire excellence in motivation, in practical application, and in expectation.

I desire no qualifying art. We create with Him in mind, not us, not practice, not performance. Him.

He did that for us.