A Fire Untended
For one that I once loved, but is now little more than an acquaintance. I hope that this story will change things.
Either he had fallen unconscious, kneeling in his grief, or Kevin had lost track of time. The windows of his house's lower floor, facing east, now cast a dim light around his body. The storm seemed to have slackened a bit, and much of the cold had left, for the flowers across the street seemed to be reaching out to the sun, still invisible behind a wall of clouds.
Kevin felt strangely vibrant. The full measure of his grief had been freely accepted, and though it gave him a feeling of emptiness and dread, still there was peace. He knew that he had done everything he could do. He had not flinched from the truth, no matter how bitter the taste. He felt justified, as if he had done something right.
Though it was a strange sensation, he found himself able to do things as normally as he ever could. Walking into the kitchen, he withdrew his favourite mug from the cupboard. In a few moments his hands were wrapped around a steaming cup of hot apple cider, sitting in the chair in front of his living room table. He sipped with relish. Laughing, for the first time in many long hours, he realised, he thought of Mary's earlier attempt at hospitality. He hated hot chocolate, coffee and tea even more so. Apple cider was the only thing that he ever drank hot. It made him feel fresh as it went down his throat. He took another grateful sip.
Unheralded, memories of Shannon came flooding to his mind. The peace began to fade, so Kevin stood up and busied himself in building up a fire, more as a distraction than anything. He concentrated on it fully, more than he normally would have, making the flame grow slowly and deliberately. His eyes followed the tips of the slender pillars, dancing with each other, intertwined, sometimes growing into one, more bright than either could have hoped to be alone. He could almost see her.
Shivering from the thought, he turned to drink some more cider and almost dropped the cup. There she was, peering down at him, with a mingled look of concern and curiosity played on her face. He could feel his eyes were still moist. With a overly exaggerated yawn, he stood up and wiped his face. "Shannon, what are you doing here? It's barely six o'clock in the morning."
"I felt like going for a walk," she said, "and I wanted to see you. You've been avoiding me."
Kevin looked out the window. "You walked? It looks like a hurricane out there!" But worse when he had been outside, he thought. "Why didn't you just wait for a bus?"
"They won't come for another two hours, and by then you would be gone," she argued.
"Actually, I was planning on staying home to read today." He paused. "Wait a second. How would you know that I would have been gone?"
"Because I've been trying to see you almost every morning for the last three weeks. I've been taking the early bus on my way to work to check if you're home."
Good thing I've been out, then, he wanted to say. He wanted to be near her, but as he continually told himself, it only made things worse, so what was the point? Instead, he weakly replied, "why?"
She cocked an eyebrow. "That's what friends do, isn't it? See each other?"
Few friends, Kevin thought, would go so far as she did, which could be taken to an extreme, whether good or bad. He took the unpleasant one. "Not all end up stalking the ones they don't see every day." Shocked, she took half a step back, her lips mouthing indignation. The comment was unfair, Kevin knew, but he saw no other way to keep her at arm's length. He had to; he couldn't exist like this forever, fighting back tears whenever she was near. It was obvious that she wanted to be closer to him again, but every time she attempted it, Kevin felt as if his heart were being ripped apart at the very seams he had stitched to mend it. He had to heal. He had to keep her away. These things he told himself then, though he only half-believed them: in the back of his mind, the nagging thought that he needed not stitches but renewal plagued him. So it was with a only partly apologetic face that he looked at her, fighting his doubt, and said, "can you really deny it?"
It grieved Kevin to see, for she was plainly hurt, but he restrained himself from retracting the comment. A moment of silence fell between them. She looked at him directly, green eyes flashing with something akin to passion, and said defiantly, "you don't want this."
Kevin shook his head. "No, I don't," he agreed, and said no more. She quickly turned around, walked to the door, and took a pair of gloves out of her pocket. As she adjusted her toque, she said dramatically, "it doesn't have to be this way," and walked away.
He watched her reach the end of the driveway and turn without looking back, her hair swaying in the wind. "I'm trying," he whispered.
Returning to the fire, he picked up his mug. The cider had cooled considerably, and the lukewarm taste of it running down his throat was anything but pleasant. He thought of his words to Shannon. What was he trying to do, he wondered. The answer came quickly: he was trying to be what she needed him to be. "How can I be what you need," he lamented, "when you'll never be what I do?"
At least his motives were pure. He had taken no thought for what he needed; his only desire was for him to serve her, to bless her. Thoughts are not enough, he thought, and nearly laughed aloud at the irony. His resolve was kept from running to completion because of his pain. His broken heart was in the way. He might have ignored what he needed, but it still affected him. Perhaps, Kevin thought, it was time for his actions to be noble too.
He walked to the closet, bundled up, and walked outside, following the footsteps that already led from his door. About a quarter mile ahead he found her, her head slowly moving from side to side. She seemed to be in no hurry, either enjoying the surroundings or thinking too deeply to be moving quickly. In either case, she heard him coming.
She greeted him with an arched eyebrow. "I thought that we could go for a walk before you go to work," he said. "I'd rather do that than read."
Shannon shook her head. "That was an excuse. I took this weekend off." Smiling, she asked, "where do want to go? I've got all day."
Kevin returned the smile. Closing his eyes for a moment, already knowing the pain that would only mount as time went on, he walked at her side. They went for breakfast at a local caf�, waiting for it to open. He laughed as she perused the wares of various stores, telling him about where she would put or use them. During the afternoon, they watched movies at her house; she chose one of the Narnia films and afterwards he put The Last Crusade into the player. As he had done all day, he watched her, seeing her eyes follow the characters on the screen, and felt the pang of loss. Sitting on a couch across the room, he felt the greatest desire to hold her. Simply to let her rest against him, he thought, would be enough. Even in no more than the thought of it, he felt almost content. Yet she was still across the room, far out of arm's reach, a physical reminder of emotional wounds. He turned back to Indiana Jones.
He watched Elsa fall into the abyss and the professor take her place. "I can almost reach it, dad," he said, fingers brushing the greatest artifact in history. His fingers began to slip and Kevin found himself on the edge of his seat, even though he had seen the movie a hundred times before.
"Let it go," Henry Jones said to his son. Kevin thought of Shannon across the room, and the words repeated in his mind. Turning, he saw her looking at him intently. He met her gaze and knew that she understood his sacrifice in being there. There was pity in her eyes, and pain in which he wished she did not have to share. He thought he could see that she understood that too.
He watched as Indy was pulled up by his father. The Grail lay forgotten in the chasm as the two fled the collapsing temple. As Kevin closed his eyes and whistled the theme while the credits rolled, he knew that Shannon was watching him. He continued to whistle. When the last note had played, he looked at her and smiled. The grief was evident, he was sure, but the smile remained. For the first time, she seemed to be at a loss for words, struggling with what to do. He pressed the eject button and put the move back in its case. There was nothing to be said or done but what he was already doing.
After an awkward moment of silence, he said, "I should probably be going. I'm going to turn in early. Last night made for a very long day." She stood and stopped for a moment, but quickly recovered and walked him to the door. Again she stood waiting, and seemed unsure of what to do or say. Weakly, she said "thanks," but he waved his hand to admonish the gesture.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I wish I could do more." He put his hand on the doorknob, but went limp as she laid her hand on his arm.
"That makes two of us," she said. Kevin walked out of the door without a word, leaving his dearest friend in distress, unwilling to let her share in any more of his.
In that, Kevin told himself as he walked back onto the street, lay the new problem. He had proven himself capable and willing to put his heart on the line for Shannon, even in the foreknowledge that the result could only be deeper wounds, but he had not foreseen this. The thought had never occurred to him that the grief was not his alone. Now, in the realization of this, he desired nothing more than to take her pain upon himself, just as he had not shrunk from the prospect of his own. How could it be done, he wondered. It occurred to him that that some might call his desires noble, and others would name them selfish instead. He was not sure to which camp he belonged, and it did not bother him. He simply desired it, and in the sureness of his mind felt justified. There was no question of why, but only of how.
How could he do it? He had to stop her pain, and did not care whether it was right for him to be as desperate for it as he was. His mind began to rationalize, starting with the most basic truth. That was that she shared in his pain because she knew of it. There were only two options to take from there: to remove his pain, or to distort her knowledge of it. He almost entertained the latter thought, but he could never lie to her. Even if he wanted to hide it from her, he knew after the day's events that it was impossible. She knew him too well, and he had neither the desire nor the ability to cloak his emotions around her. It would be like loving someone else, like adultery.
Which left only one thing to do. He had to rid himself of the pain. And through that, he came to understand, he could give the greatest gift of all.
Kevin had a paper to write for his literature course, so when he got home he went to his computer and began to type. He was half done, and had finally decided on a title. "Fated Sorrow" he called it, and he was focusing on elves from Lord of the Rings, his favourite book since childhood. He opened up his copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, turning to Galadriel's final words to the group, and began to write about the sadness shown even in the word choice of her song. When he had finished he looked back, first at the pages of his own writing, then at the bound copy of the masterpiece. His next point was from a different volume, so he reached for the first book to close it. As he did, his eyes fell on words that he had almost forgotten.
| "Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come, had I known the danger of light and joy. Now I have taken my worst wound in this parting, even if I were to go this night straight to the Dark Lord. Alas for Gimli son of Gl�in!" |
"Alas for Kevin too," he said. He read on:
| "Nay!" said Legolas. "Alas for us all! And for all that walk the world in these after-days. For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running-stream. But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Gl�in: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise." |
He closed the book, and felt warm. He knew what he had to do.
Jesus, you know the burden that I am bearing. You have somehow carried even more than this, and you did it so that I could pray to you now. Abba, I love you, and I praise you that you speak to me even through the works of man. You know that I have never been more grieved than I am now, and I cannot imagine even all the demons of hell together wounding me like this. All of this is the fruit of sin, the work of the enemy.
And yet you have taught me that you came to destroy that work. You did not raise me from my own death simply to inflict pain on me again. What are you doing, Lord? Are you actually destroying that work right now? Am I just too blind to see it?
I do not know what falsehoods you are bringing to light. There is so much that I have done wrong, and even more that I am unsure about. Are you ridding me of the doubt that I have that I love her, or of my anxiousness? Can it be that, impossible as it seems to me, loving her would be rebellion against you? Is this the sin in my life that you long to destroy? Even if you do, how can I know if you will redeem this loss, and my grief, afterwards?
I love you, Jesus. I love you even more than her, so how can I allow you to work in my life just because I want her back? You are good, and still I feel like I must master and control how you refine me. I know that you give the greatest gifts to the ones that delight in you. Perhaps I had begun to delight in the gift, not the giver. Rid me of everything that is holding me back from living my life as an offering to you. Show your power by detaching me from the desire I have for this beautiful child of yours, even the love of her, so that I can lay it at your feet.
Be merciful.
Kevin's face was now covered in tears for the second time in a day. Just as he had before, he felt unashamed of it, and just as before he made no attempt to hide the evidence. But this time was different; somehow he knew that it was better. In the knowledge that he had given all things over to God, he felt something new. His tears were not being washed away, and his grief was not gone: they both remained, and were more real than ever before, but he felt full. He knew it was paradoxical to feel so complete when he had given up the one thing he desired above everything else, but he could not deny his heart's peace. It was not as if he was instantly rid of his love for her, for the pain was still there, more deep than he could remember, but now he could see it had a purpose. In the offering of his heart's greatest desire, all of his love, that love was brought to completion. It was back in the right place.
There was still work to do. He had a heavy burden, but he was right with God again, and in this he felt rest. Not the rest, perhaps, that he had once dreamed of � her falling asleep against his chest, his arms holding her as he drifted off too � but greater peace. He no longer had to worry about winning her heart, or losing her, or getting her back. All had happened in some measure, and all could happen again. He could not foretell whether they would, nor could he affect their happening, for they were completely in the hands of his Father. If, after he gave up these things, his love and his hope for her, God gave them back, then he could not think of a way that he could show his gratitude. Then he would know that there was future purpose in them, beyond even the great worth he felt in the simple act of loving. In just the possibility of that, he could respond only with the last words of his conversation with his God. But now, all he could do was give it all up to his Maker.
Mercy was his only prayer. He knew that though he had given all things concerning Shannon to God, that was only in word. His heart was still holding onto her, but God would change that, because Kevin had asked him to, and God would not prove unfaithful. So before that desire was gone completely, he prayed for mercy, knowing exactly what he was going to lose. He loved trying to understand, and the search for wisdom, but now his mind was stilled. He stopped thinking and analyzing, because though he loved to know, he loved God more, who knew better. And God, he was amazed to find, still listened.
This was all such a revelation, and everything about Shannon seemed so changed, that almost he reached for his jacket to walk back to her house, though in truth it had been only a few hours since he had last been there. He stopped himself and thought for a moment, meditating on the fact that she was still hurting from the belief that she was causing him pain, and finally he reminded himself that she was still right.
Kevin sighed, almost half-laughing. "But it's not the kind of pain to be sad about," he said. "There isn't anything better than this." He said it again, in a whisper, as if his heart could hear it better that way. In his heart Kevin knew that by placing his heart on the altar he had offered the greatest sacrifice possible to both Shannon and God, but he doubted that she would see it as such. Neither could he see the smile on his Father's face, even with the understanding that the smile was there nonetheless. Grief had been the vessel of his offering, but the loneliness which he bore forced him to be his own counselor. That was what he had told himself, but what if the receiver of the gift could, by their joy, be his greatest comforter?
So Kevin saw things through God's eyes instead. The place he was at now, he realised, was the most beautiful he had known. He could see Shannon, and delight in her laugh, and make her happy, for the first time that he could remember. And the best part? It came from his Father. No matter what God did with his love for her, things would never change so much that he would have to act like he had never known or loved her.
He had become so used to falling asleep from exhaustion or grief that his heart was too light for sleep. Instead, he went back to the fire that had begun in the morning. It had burned itself out in the meantime, but Kevin built it up again. There was no grief as he watched the flames flicker. The moon, a day past the full, shone in through the windows, no longer red, but beautiful. It would diminish as the nights went on, he knew, just as he could feel his own love for Shannon ebbing away and returning to the Father. A cloud passed over it, and the only light came from the flames licking the stone of the fireplace.
"For our God is a consuming fire," he whispered.
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