Sometimes, I sit on the couch and watch the fire in the fireplace. Yesterday, I took a short afternoon break and parked myself. I had been tasked with keeping the fire burning while Sam was out enjoying the day with a log splitter. However, I got distracted with a dust rag and a vacuum — two of my friends in low places — and I let the fire die.

When I walked into the room and remembered, “Oh, the fireplace!”, I had to begin again. So I got the biggest, burliest, heaviest log we had, thinking, “That’ll last a LONG time.”

Ri-i-i-i-ight.

It took four firestarters, quite a few strips of newspaper, constant use of the poker and stirring of hot coals from the previous Sam fire, and a lot of parking on the couch to watch and wait and beginning againing before that fire was back to where it needed to be.

Good grief. I didn’t have time to sit on the couch and watch the pot that wasn’t boiling. We had company coming over. My effort belonged with the dust and the dirt.

Big logs are not the best logs to start a fire. I knew this. I was just trying to cut a corner and get back to my friends in low places.

Sam had counted on me to keep the fire going. Dust rag and vacuum…or Sam’s confidence in me. Hmmmm.

There are lessons here…lessons that I am taking to heart, kind of.

1. When the fire dies out, it takes effort to get it going again. 
2. When the fire dies out, it is much more sensible to start small.
3. When the fire dies out, if you want a fire again, you have to make it a priority.

You might think by “fire,” I am talking about the relationship kind of fire. I am not. Although, the three lessons would correlate. Besides, I DO have a relationship in my life where I need to apply the lessons, but I digress.

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I received a phone call last week.

It was like one of those little firestarters.

On the other end of the phone was a representative from a fairly well-known publishing company. We visited for a little while and she asked me to describe the story I want to tell. And then she said something like, “I don’t care if it takes you two more months or 10 more months. Get your manuscript done and let me know when you are ready. Women need to hear your journey.” 

I am sure she says that to everyone – she’s in sales – but it was a spark for me.

A successful match to my worn out striker strip.

And then, two days later, I visited with a new friend who knows nothing about my journey, and she commented, “Rhonda, YOU NEED TO WRITE A BOOK. I read what you write about Sam on CaringBridge, and I would read ANYTHING you wrote. Seriously, you need to write a book.”

A newspaper strip to a hot coal that was just sitting in a heap of ashes.

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Many years ago, I took my high school choir to Colorado for a week and made arrangements while we were there to meet and have dinner with an author who lived just outside of Colorado Springs. Several students and I loved his books, and he and his wife were gracious enough to spend some time with us. While we visited, Robert told us that when he writes a book, he secludes himself for several weeks at a “home away from home” and just writes. No distractions. Concentrated focus.

I cannot imagine how I will ever be able to seclude myself for several weeks and just write.

And…they’re back. Those inner friends in low places, dusting and vacuuming away the dream.

However.

I do know that:

1. when the fire dies out, it takes effort to get it going again. (Schedule writing time on the calendar.)
2. when the fire dies out, it is much more sensible to start small. (Try one thought at a time, then a few sentences, one paragraph, and then one chapter.)
3. when the fire dies out, if you want a fire again, you have to make it a priority. (How important is this to me?)

Today, I am grateful that on the other end of a phone conversation, Yvette used a poker last week and stirred the embers.

I am grateful that Diana is “sitting on the couch” and just watching the beginning againing.

And I am grateful for three lessons that rose from some ashes and grateful for a story that is still glowing somewhere underneath.