What do you get when you mix flames, bare feet, and fatigue? A taste of life's painful consequences that can teach someone as fiery as me about miracles, about Divine appointments, and about putting out emotional fires when the enemy of my soul is still fanning the flames.
I actually attempted to put out a fire on my deck in bare feet in 14 below zero weather by myself last week (which explains the lack of activity on my blog of late). My daughter drove from Wyoming to the burn unit in Colorado to show me photos of my blackened footprints on the deck.
I later told my pastor I burned my foot stepping in front of the angel who was clearly containing the fire on one side while another guardian angel held my petroleum-based polyester pants away from my skin as they melted from my arch to my calf.
Prayers were ordered before pain killers, which I somehow never needed, in spite of what doctors believed were third-degree burns across the pads of my toes. None of the melted black plastic material adhered to my skin; so prayers also canceled the surgeon when I finally arrived at the burn center 6 hours later. Just 40 hours later, I was free to laugh and feast with my other daughter -- a police academy student, whom I hadn't seen in months. Out of the ashes -- a family reunion. Without boyfriends. A double miracle.
Home to prop up my burned foot and heal, I found myself dozing on the other end of that same smoked deck, thankfully texting this note:
"What could be better for healing than resting on deck cushions in melting-away-winter sun with the bluffing of horses and chickadee chatter for music?"
And then the still soft voice of God posed this question: "Wonder what would feel that way when you get burned by those you love?"
Here's my prayerful answer: "What could be better for healing than resting in the melting-away-winter Son with the bluffing of horses and chickadee chatter for music?"
So, even though I "got burned" on Valentine's Day and even though I'm still fuming about it today, I have a remedy.
If you don't have Him, you only have pain killers.
I actually attempted to put out a fire on my deck in bare feet in 14 below zero weather by myself last week (which explains the lack of activity on my blog of late). My daughter drove from Wyoming to the burn unit in Colorado to show me photos of my blackened footprints on the deck.
I later told my pastor I burned my foot stepping in front of the angel who was clearly containing the fire on one side while another guardian angel held my petroleum-based polyester pants away from my skin as they melted from my arch to my calf.
Prayers were ordered before pain killers, which I somehow never needed, in spite of what doctors believed were third-degree burns across the pads of my toes. None of the melted black plastic material adhered to my skin; so prayers also canceled the surgeon when I finally arrived at the burn center 6 hours later. Just 40 hours later, I was free to laugh and feast with my other daughter -- a police academy student, whom I hadn't seen in months. Out of the ashes -- a family reunion. Without boyfriends. A double miracle.
Home to prop up my burned foot and heal, I found myself dozing on the other end of that same smoked deck, thankfully texting this note:
"What could be better for healing than resting on deck cushions in melting-away-winter sun with the bluffing of horses and chickadee chatter for music?"
And then the still soft voice of God posed this question: "Wonder what would feel that way when you get burned by those you love?"
Here's my prayerful answer: "What could be better for healing than resting in the melting-away-winter Son with the bluffing of horses and chickadee chatter for music?"
So, even though I "got burned" on Valentine's Day and even though I'm still fuming about it today, I have a remedy.
If you don't have Him, you only have pain killers.
