I have never been a smoker except for one puff when I was six years old, but that one puff has produced some weird stories.
Several years ago, back in the day when we still answered the phone without knowing who was on the other end, I got snagged by a survey taker.
The questions had to do with tobacco use. Had I ever used tobacco?
I am entirely too honest. That puff at age six leaped into my consciousness and I told her I had once. I regretted that transparency shortly.
No Obsession Like a Survey Taker
She jumped on my admission like a starving wolf. “What did you use?”
“Um, well, I was six years old, and I took one puff.”
“Was it menthol or filtered?”
“I was six years old. And it was one puff.”
“What brand of cigarette was it?”
Really? You'd Ask Again?
“I was six years old, and it was one puff.”
“Did you continue the habit?”
“I was six years old, and I never wanted another puff.”
She kept asking, and I only had one answer.
What I’m going to share with you didn’t fit into her survey questions. But we’re friends and I am entirely too honest.
Here's The Story
At age 6, I approached my dad after supper one evening. He sat at the dining room table with a cigarette poised between two fingers, white smoke drifting like a lazy river toward the ceiling, and a glimmering glass ashtray beside him.
I guess I was staring with eager eyes. I thought he looked sophisticated, although I'm certain I didn't know that word yet.
“Would you like a puff?” He beckoned to me.
Yes, I would. I scooted up to him, eager to share this special moment. I lifted the white tube to my lips and took a long pull on the cigarette.
A loooong pull. One loooong draw.
White Heat
Dragon's breath first roasted my tonsils before descending with white raging heat down my throat. My lungs were seared and my stomach rolled with burning coals.
The scalding smoke slammed into my eyes and my nose filled with the stench of dead mice and scorched banana peels. Angry flames blew out my ears and singed my eyebrows.
My throat cramped like a sore muscle. My toenails curled with the heat and hot tears ran down my cheeks.
Certain that my life was about to end, I spun and sprinted on my hot, toasted legs into the bathroom. I stuck my mouth under the faucet, slapped the cold water handle open, and tried to drown myself.
As rushing water sluiced across my tongue in the faint hope of dousing the fire, I had one thought, assuming I survived: Never again. A single swallow of the dragon’s breath was more than enough for me.
Done, Done, Done
I imagine that was Dad’s idea, and it worked.
Besides making me a lifelong nonsmoker, the experience also had another benefit. My experience roasted the caller’s survey results.
A blacksmith builds a blazing fire before he pushes the metal into the flames. But the metal must get red hot - softened - and then he pounds it into something useful.
You have been pushed into the fire of grief and loss with raw and searing pain.
But I have pulled you out and begun re-forming you.
Trust me, dear one. I won’t crush you to uselessness, but I will form you into something new.
This fire of grief and loss is changing you. You are being made new.
I act with love and purpose. You can’t see what I see, but trust me, I have a plan for you.
Unlike the metal in the fire, you have the power to step away. And you might consider it because you want to avoid the pain of a scorching fire.
But if you won’t endure the pain of the fire, you won’t see my transformation.
Trust me, dear one. Let me work.
I will bring that group through the fire and make them pure. I will refine them like silver and purify them like gold. They will call on my name, and I will answer them. I will say, ‘These are my people,’ and they will say, ‘The Lord is our God.’ ”
Take my hand and let’s stroll out onto the dance floor. The orchestra music lifts your spirits. Smell the sweet flowers decorating the walls. Conversations with soft voices drift to your ears.
You wear an elegant gown of purple silk. Diamonds at your neck. I have given you the attire of the ball.
Don’t pull away fearing you don’t measure up to this. I am the king of the dance and I brought you here.
Don’t run back to the shadows like a self-conscious middle schooler. Walk with me into the light.
You are loved with an everlasting love.
Allow the beauty of this place to give you confidence to join the dance of life, the feast of love, the gathering of freedom. This is my dance and you belong here.
I have loved you even as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love.
The winds of loss shriek with deafening cries until the air is thick with pain. You think you can’t hear me. Listen to my gentle voice.
Choose the path of your thoughts. Focus on my voice, not the pain.
I whisper words of hope, of confidence, of life in midst of the storm. Pain can confuse you and lure you away from me. But you can learn to hear my voice.
The winds howl outside of you. My voice whispers inside–to your mind, to your spirit.
Focus on me, not those external angry cries. My words are of love and purpose and kindness and mercy.
I love you, dear one. In the storm, I love you. In the shrieks of pain, I still love you.
Listen for my voice. Come to me.
Anyone who listens to my teaching and follows it is wise, like a person who builds a house on solid rock
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