I love to burn things. It is incredibly therapeutic. I stand outside in the back 40 reveling in the peace, watching planes fly by, hearing birds and frogs and critters chatter, getting distracted by shiny things.
As sun sets, the mesmerizing flames lick 'round and higher. My mind flits through scenes of ancient Babylon when Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego took what could have been a fatal stand. As my face stings from the ambient heat, I cringe at the thought of the flames of hell. I thank the One who rescued me for the privelege of never having to experience that inferno, mourning for those who will. Having been emotionally exhausted, I let my mind go blank. Drinking in the flames.
On the eve of trash day, I dumpster dive in search of things to burn: pizza boxes, wood scraps, junk mail, my bra. Whatever. Tonight was no different. But I couldn't stop there. I dug up dead weeds around the burn pile trying to pretty up the place. It is a burn pile after all. A thinking place. It must be revered.
I burnt viney things and bright green things and stickery things. Knowing nothing of what I was touching with my gloved hands because that would require a knowledge of plant life. And since I don't know much about botany, my poison ivy-prone skin and I fear every little plant that isn't actively blooming.
I had no idea how long I'd been clearing the hill. Knowing it was a race to cleanse my person lest the pustulant plague begin to ravage my body, I hurried inside to freshen up. I stuffed my garments in the washer. Left with nothing other than a couple of freshly laundered throw rugs, I fashioned a garment with coverage suitable to shuffle past my two small boys who were lounging in the living room.
And I am happy to report, oddly enough, that it only took one throw rug, one 31 inch throw rug at that, to reach completely around this forty-something year old waist that has borne two children. The second throw rug was used, of course, to cover my caboose. (Sorry. I know. TMI.)
My husband--charming man that he is--in his amused alarm told me, "It kind of works for you." Ecstatic I am to know I can make even a throw rug...or two look good.
For those ladies in the audience, I leave you now so you can scurry to the secrecy of your bathroom to see how many throw rugs it takes to cover your shapely physique. Hush now. Don't worry, baby, dem's love handles.
link: malachi 4, the beach boys, sam cooke, the trammps
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