December 23, 2013 Dedicated to all of the friends and all of the fires.
The old Methodists of my childhood used to sing, “There is a place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God.” I think I know where it is.
There is something about a campfire that is so much more than a pile of burning wood. Each fire on that bare spot of earth is connected to every fire that burned before it; a renewal of sorts….a continuation as though in some indefinable way, it never was extinguished at all.
The fire is more than a mere fixture of the gathering. It plays its own special role. As dusk falls and the temperature drops, we gather the wood and lay the kindling. Soon the flames climb up out of the smaller pieces and as they leap upward, the dark and cold are driven back a little further and our spirits are high. A meal is shared in a circle of dancing light and the memories and laughter mingle with the swirling, crackling fire.
A little later, coals are raked out from the base of the blaze and in a little bit, cowboy coffee steams from a blackened pot and the smell of an apple pie wafts from the Dutch oven, sitting over a bed of coals with another layer on the rimmed lid. Someone adds another log and things gradually quiet down. The fire has formed an intense bed of glowing, shimmering coals and a steady stream of smoke and sparks rise into the deepening night.
As coffee and pie are passed around, the evening shifts seamlessly into a more intimate mood. And now, we talk. It is true conversation, unfettered by the clock. And here is the magic: The first thought is followed with other thoughts and it is out of this quiet, peaceful exchange that understanding is reached and friendships are deepened. There is no agenda and the conversation flows like a lazy stream through a southern swamp. Each person picks up his paddle in turn and shifts the course of our voyage ever so slightly. It doesn’t matter because we can always circle back or take the next fork in our meandering minds.
Eventually, the flames die down but now we don’t refuel it. Its time has come. Its work is finished. It is dying slowly and we grow silent for the most part. It is then that we are joined by the ghosts of campfires past. Some have died and others have moved into some distant orbit of our lives. Their faces, untouched by time or disease, are seen in our minds eyes, illuminated by the dwindling flame. We sigh. We yawn. We shiver against the intruding chill. Still, there is a reluctance to leave this special place and these special friends. We linger a little longer, transfixed by the spell of the whispering heap of coals. This evening has been joined to the other evenings. Its ashes will settle into the ashes of its predecessors and will be the foundation of a future evening. The Bible says that in heaven “we will know, even as we are known.” Surely, there will be campfires there! I could wish nothing finer than to sit with you, my friends, sip steaming coffee, share real conversation and be warmed by the fellowship of the flames.
Hal F. Leary