Fire

On one of my earliest camping trips, my scout troop went to Houston. We headed down on Friday night to camp and went to the space center early Saturday.

Traffic caused us to hit our campsite at dusk. We pitched our tents with flashlights. We built a campfire. It was surprisingly cool for Houston. Houston’s humidity is typically so high you can wear the air.

We split out some red coals from the fire to cook our foil dinners. My favorite was a very basic version. Wrap foil around ground beef, onions, potatoes, carrots, salt, and pepper. A simple stew without the goop.

In the divided fire pit, we kept the flames going on the other side. It replaced the light of the setting sun, kept us warm, and drove away the evening bugs.

We had an early start, so our Scoutmasters had the impossible task of getting a bunch of kids to be quiet and sleep. We finally dozed off. The night was cold enough to wake me up several times. Eventually, the day broke, and we got up. I tore down my tent and went to the bank of the stream. I found a cool shell and put it in my pocket. It was foggy and cold by the water, so I went to the fire ring.

The fire was out, but the coals were still red and warm. I squatted by the fire and ate Pop-Tarts. The sun was peeking, but I was still frozen from the night before. I held my hands up to the coals. Off to the side, I noticed a unique white rock. I had never seen anything like it.

I planned to add this unusual white rock to the shell as a memento of the trip. I picked it up to inspect it more closely. I was about to learn it—in fact—was not a rock. I probably only held it for a second, but time stretched out so I could feel every bit of hot coal I had just picked up with my bare fingers. I dropped the coal, but only after it blistered my fingertip.

I had just done the campfire version of the “don’t touch a hot stove.”

I had become familiar with the fire. It cooked my food. It kept us warm. We had light and scared away bugs and maybe predators. It also cooked me. It is capable of destroying nearly everything it touches.

I sometimes grow comfortable with powerful things and mistake that comfort for control. Driving a car. Holding influence. Raising a child. Fire doesn’t decide whether to serve or destroy. It just is. Familiarity makes things feel ordinary, but the power doesn’t disappear.

Is this safe or just familiar? What deserves more respect than I am giving it? How can I use what I have to serve?

Be curious, be kind, be whole, do good things.