Why The Bush Doesn’t Burn: Decision Chronicles #5

The bush blazed with fire but did not burn up.

          Maggie paused mid-step on the road, peering through the darkness at the ignited bush. It stood alone in a field, sharp red and orange tongues licking at the night sky. The crackle of flames, the shimmer of heat, yet the bush did not burn. No branches curling and blackening. No leaves shriveling and evaporating into tiny, bat-like embers that darted off into nothingness. The bush just stood there, awash in flames.

          Maggie gripped Bird’s hand tighter. Surveyed the road ahead. Only darkness. A partially concealed moon offered just enough light to distinguish road from wilderness. They really should keep moving. And yet…

          Maggie’s gaze returned to the bush. Why does it not burn up? Before she knew it, she’d left the road and was crossing the field, pulling the little nine-year old along beside her. She stopped a few feet from the bush. Studied it closer.

          What type of bush is it? She hadn’t encountered a plethora of foliage during her fifteen-year life in the county orphanage.

Grateful for the chance to finally give her tiny feet a rest, Bird curled up in the warmth of the fire and promptly fell asleep. Maggie bit her lower lip. We should keep moving. No telling what kind of animals lurked around here. But she couldn’t imagine taking another step. And the fire was warm and protective.

          She squatted on the grass, wincing as streaks of pain shot through the open scars on her back. She stared deep into the fire. She knew in some part of her brain that it was odd. Bizarre. That the bush didn’t burn. Yet she felt a sense of rightness. Wholeness. Comfort.

          Feelings wholly unfamiliar in her life until this very moment.

          Bird tucked her arm under her chest, as if cradling an imaginary teddy bear. Her lips pursed in that curious little beak that had earned the child her nickname. She whimpered in her sleep and clutched the invisible bear tighter. “Shh, little bird,” Maggie whispered, running a finger over her cheek. Mags is here.

Ominous questions swarmed in the surrounding darkness. Only the fire protected her, keeping her from being devoured. What if people came after them? Dragged them back to the Home? Ms. Ogleton would be on them like a biblical judgement, scowling down from that hard, pimply face as she unleashed merciless punishment. Who knows how far it is to the nearest town? What little food she’d been able to scrounge away that morning she’d given to Bird. Even now her stomach gnawed at her.

          Maggie set her jaw. It didn’t matter. She’d find a way. She’d get Bird somewhere safe and warm. Somewhere with no hunger or yelling or cruel children to make the little girl cry.     

          “It’s late,” a man’s voice said. “You should be getting home.”

          Maggie shook her head. “We have nowhere to be.” She crossed her arms over her knees, staring through the fiery bush to a pair of sandaled feet on the other side.

          “Been walking long?” he asked.

          “All day.” Maggie watched the light of the flames dance across the man’s feet. Calloused feet in worn sandals. He must walk everywhere.

          As Maggie studied the feet, a thought slipped across her mind—when did he get here? The thought confused her. She played things back in her mind—she and Bird walking. Turning aside to the bush. Then talking to the man with sandals. He must have appeared recently. Only moments ago. But it didn’t feel that way.

          It felt like he’d been here all along.

          She leaned forward. Stiffened as pain shot across her back like hot, stinging spiderwebs. For a moment she couldn’t breathe as pain blurred her vision. Then the spasm passed and she could let out a breath. For a moment she’d forgotten about the scars crisscrossing her back. How was that possible? Hadn’t every step along the road today been agony?  

          “Where are you going?” the man asked.

          “Away,” Maggie said. Far, far away. As far as they could get. She shifted to the side and a yelp of pain escaped her.  

          “Here,” the man said. “For your back.” He reached out and offered Maggie a small glass jar. She stared, unable to make sense of what she was seeing. The man had reached through the bush. She watched as flames licked up and around his arm. Just like the bush, he did not burn.

          Maggie accepted the jar and his hand disappeared back through the flames. She opened the lid, releasing a strong, pleasant aroma. What is that? Stronger than pine, but every bit as fresh. She held it to her nose and took a long whiff. It had a cold, delicious bite that tingled her nostrils and sent ripples down her spine. “For your back” he’d said.

          She dipped two fingers in the jar and came away with a creamy goop a little thicker than toothpaste. Slowly, awkwardly, she reached under her shirt and touched the open wounds on her back. A cry escaped her—not pain. Relief. Sweet, soothing comfort that nearly made her weep. The solvent didn’t just dress the wounds—it seemed to outright heal them.

          She peered through the fire. Still unable to make out anything more than his sandaled feet. How did he know about the scars?

          Maggie applied the rest of the solvent, spreading it liberally across her back. For the first time all day, she could breathe easy without fear of her shirt rubbing against the wounds and sending spiderwebs of pain shooting through her.

          “Thank you,” she said, setting the jar on the ground. A wave of guilt suddenly washed over her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I used it all.”

          He gave a soft laugh. “It’s all right.” He was quiet a moment, then said, “There’s something special about having scars on your back.”

          Maggie stared down at the ground. Watched Bird sleep in the glow of the fire. “Do you have scars?” Maggie asked.

          “Yes.”

          “On your back?”

          “Yes.”

          Maggie wrapped her arms around her knees. Laughed ruefully. “’The lash is for the stubborn’. That’s what Ms. Ogleton always said. What she always called me. Stubborn. ’Stubborn as the devil and three times as wicked.’” Why am I telling him this? She thought. He doesn’t even know who you’re talking about.   

          “Stubborn, eh?”

          Maggie sat up straighter. “You’ve got to be.” Her muscles tightened. Eyes narrowed. “They can’t hurt you if you’re stubborn. They can only hurt you if you let them.” She looked down at the little girl. No one’s going to hurt you, Bird. Not anymore.

          “You’ve known a lot of pain.”

          His words made the breath stick in her throat. Because it wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. Knowledge. Insight. As if the sandaled man had seen it all—every lash of the yardstick, every red face and slammed door. Every lonely night staring out a cracked window that let in cold in the winter and mosquitos in the summer. He spoke as if he’d seen it all and grieved every moment.

          Maggie shook her head. Firmly. Defiantly. “Never again,” she muttered. “I will never let it happen again.” She scooted closer to Bird. “I’ll never let pain near us again.”

          Silence fell. But it wasn’t empty. Something permeated the atmosphere of the silence—something pure and warm and simple. Maggie didn’t know what to call it—she’d never silence like this. But a word tugged at her, as if from some long forgotten memory. Some bit of knowledge instilled before she was born. An awareness that it was possible to sit in a stillness like this. And that the name of that stillness was ‘holy’.   

          “Pain is not God,” the sandaled man said. “You need not fear it.”

          The words were like the silence—simple. Quiet.

          Holy.

          And yet she bristled.

          “I’m not afraid of anything.”

          “Pain isn’t God,” he repeated. “Don’t let it tell you where to go. What to do.” The flames rose higher. Yet the bush did not burn. “There’s a far greater life than the one that avoids pain.”

          Silence—that still, holy silence—descended once more. The words did not disappear, but settled on her chest. Easing their way in and through and down to the depths of her heart. There’s a far greater life than the one that avoids pain.

          She stared at the bush, watched the resilient leaves which shimmered and swayed but remained unsinged. “Why does the bush not burn?”

          The sandaled man didn’t answer. Maggie sensed in the silence—the holy silence—that he was waiting. Waiting for her to answer the question herself. To come to the solution.

          But she had no idea.

          “There’s a town not far off,” the sandaled man said. “You should take her there.”

          Maggie turned and squinted down the road. “How far?”

          “Not that way.”

          His feet pivoted toward the north. She looked that way. Into the darkness. Saw only wilderness.

          “Through there,” he said.

          Maggie’s stomach knotted. Dark, endless trees stretching back into oblivion. “I’m not going through there.”

          “It’s the only way. On the other side is a town just coming to life. It’s called ‘Decision’.”

          Decision. Something about the name resonated in her soul.

          But as she stared at the trees, the knot in her stomach tightened. Old memories loomed back—five-year-old Maggie, lost in the woods behind the Home. Dark, creaky branches stretching overhead, reaching out for her. Hidden creatures, scurrying through dead leaves. Somewhere in the distance, the mannish, shrieking voice of Ms. Ogleton growing angrier and angrier…

          She shook her head. “I don’t like the woods.”

          “There’s nothing to fear. Just stay to the path.”

          She gestured behind her. “We can just take the road.”

          “It won’t lead you there.”

          Maggie bit her lower lip. Hugged her knees tighter.

          “Is it a good place?”

          “It is.” He paused, and Maggie thought she heard a smile in his voice. “There are a lot of cows.”

          Maggie glanced down at Bird. The little girl loved cows. Why did it seem like he already knew that?

          “Will she be happy there?”

          “Yes, honey. You both will.”

          Maggie brushed a strand of hair from the little girl’s sleeping face. Just the thought of entering those forbidding woods made her stomach drop.

          But she’d do it for Bird.

          “There’s something truly special about having scars on your back,” the sandaled man said.

          He said that before, didn’t he? Maggie didn’t take her eyes from Bird. “What’s so special about it?”

          A few moments of holy silence passed as firelight danced across the face of the sleeping girl.

          “It’s your back that’s exposed when you cover someone’s body with your own.”

          Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t stop the single tear from streaking down her face. The memory of that morning came back as vivid as a dream—Bird cowering in the corner, the broken plate shards strewn about her feet. Ms. Ogleton, looming over her with the yardstick. And between the two of them—Maggie. Shielding Bird as the blows descended. Crack, crack, crack! The yardstick’s sharp edge slicing into her back. And with each blow, a promise. A promise to Bird and herself. Away, away, away. Far away from this house of cruelty and sorrow and pain.

          She surveyed the forbidding woods. If a journey through the wilderness was the price of salvation, then so be it.

          The sandaled man stood, and Maggie knew he was leaving.

          “What will we do? When we get there?” she asked.

          Once more she heard the smile in his voice. “Thrive, Maggie. Thrive.”

          He knows my name. It did not surprise her. He had reached through fire to hand her a jar of ointment. Nothing he did would shock her.

          The bush blazed on, shimmering in the night with trembling leaves and glowing branches. “Why does the bush not burn?” she asked again.

          The sandaled man rubbed one of the blazing leaves between his fingers. “One day you will know.”    

Twenty Years Later

          Maggie stormed across the moonlit yard. Hands clenched. Hair flying.

Her heart pounded in her throat as she kicked through the dewy grass, half-blinded with rage. She vaulted the wooden fence at the edge of the yard and raced across the cow pasture. Frog croaks, cricket chirps, and the endless swishing of grass merged in a taunting chorus as she ran, ran, ran, chasing the moon across the field, lightning bugs blinking around her like dying stars.

Suddenly—there. At the corner of her eye. She stopped. There, in the middle of the field. A bush.  

A bush on fire.

Yet it did not burn.

The throbbing in Maggie’s ears slowly subsided as she stared at the blazing bush, sweat trickling down her forehead and into her eyes. She crossed the field, breathing hard, muddy earth squishing between her bare toes.

She stopped five feet from the bush, its heat prickling her face and arms. The leaves and branches blazed, yet they did not burn.

A memory pulled at her. Tugging, calling from another time. Another life. Two scared and dirty children. Trudging their way down an abandoned road. No food. No home.

No hope.

She took a deep breath. Stepped closer.

And he was there.

The sandaled man.

Just like that night so long ago.

Maggie searched the darkness. She couldn’t see him this time. But he was there all the same.

She set her jaw. She wasn’t the same frightened little girl she’d been back then. No jar of aloe could sooth her wounds this time.

No ointment existed for scars of the heart.

“I know you’re out there,” she muttered.

Silence.

Silence like she’d experienced that night so long ago. A pure, warm, simple silence.

Holy silence.

But this silence was different.

This one remained unbroken.

A breeze rustled the grass all around her. Fanned the flames even higher within the bush.

She felt the presence of the sandaled man. So real. So close.

But she could not see him.

“I didn’t know who you were back then,” she said. “If I had, I’d have asked more questions.” Her eyes hardened. Different questions.

Her heart beat fast again. I didn’t know who you were then. Only partially true. The girl with scars on her back hadn’t known the name of the man with sandaled feet.

But deep inside, she’d known who he was.

Maggie watched the flames lick unburnable leaves, rendering them all shades of green and yellow without ever taking a bite. Why now? When she’d last encountered the bush, she was a lost little girl trying to find her way. She was on a journey.

But now?

She wasn’t journeying now. Now she was nowhere. The deadest of dead-ends.

There’s a town nearby. It’s called Decision.

 Everything he’d said that night was true. On the other side of the wilderness lay the little town of Decision. A place newly birthed, just rising onto wobbly legs. And there certainly were cows. Bird was beside herself, squealing and jumping and giving them all names. The very week they arrived, a childless couple took them in. Gave them clothes and a bed and three square meals a day. Gave them love and care that the two girls had never known. And for the first time, they were happy. Just as the sandaled man had said.

He’d been right about everything.

Maggie stared deep into the bush. But there were things you left out.

He’d been right about the town and the cows and the happiness. But he’d said nothing about the sickness. The poverty. The wars. Yes, the town was here. But in the last twenty years it had been broken down, ripped apart, and cobbled back together so many times it was barely recognizable. Barely hanging on.

And that wasn’t the worst of it.

“You knew all of this. All of it,” Maggie muttered. She spread her hands. “Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

The silence remained. Unbroken.

Of course. Of course he had nothing to say. That was his way, wasn’t it? At least for as far back as she could remember. Back until the night she’d met him. A laughable irony—once she’d come to know who he was, he’d stopped talking. How many nights had she spent on her hands and knees begging—pleading—for just one word?

Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Why,” she whispered. “Why did you do this to Harris?”

Harris Williams. The kind, softspoken young man with red cheeks and twinkling eyes who’d stolen her heart one night at a barn raising. He’d stood hat in hand, fumblingly asking her to dance, never realizing she was already his. They’d danced all night, pounding the wooden floorboards, the smell of sawdust and haybales thick in the air. Later, a whirlwind courtship and marriage in a little church.

Then the war came and snatched him away.

So many sleepless, lonely nights. So many letters that took too long to arrive and left her only lonelier when they did. Then, finally, war’s end. Waving soldiers returning on crowded ships. Maggie standing at the dock, breathless, waiting for Harris to walk down the gangplank, red face beaming, eyes twinkling.

But he didn’t walk down. He was carried down. Two grim faced soldiers hoisting her Harris between them. His useless legs dangling.

Maggie closed her eyes. A single piece of shrapnel. A speck of metal—an inch long, maybe two. But when it struck Harris’s spine, it took away everything. His job as a lumberjack. The children they would have had. Even Harris himself. The eyes that once twinkled were now clouded. The ruddy cheeks pale and sunken in. The Harris she’d known never came home. He’d died somewhere over there, across the sea.

“He’s a ghost,” she whispered into the flames. A lifeless phantom, sitting by the window. Staring out toward the trees. Broadaxe rusting in the corner. “I could have handled all of it. All of it.” Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. Hands clenched. Shoulders trembling. “But why did you take Bird?”

Hard to believe it was almost ten years since influenza decimated the town. Bird was the last victim, the small little girl who’d blossomed into a beautiful, caring young lady. When the sickness took hold, there was nothing Maggie could do. No way to shield Bird with her own body. The sickness passed right through her and attacked Bird.  

To the very end, Maggie had pleaded to trade places, to take Bird’s illness on herself. But she’d received only silence. No answer to her plea. No intervention from the sandaled man.

Maggie stared into the bush. Stared deep into the impossible—the bush that blazed without burning. Why now? She couldn’t make sense of it. Why was it now that she’d encountered the bush? The holy silence? Why was it now that she felt the presence of the sandaled man? When it was too late for him to do anything?

She turned to go. Stopped. Turned back.

Something tugged at her. Some soft whisper, pulling at a corner of her heart. She stepped closer. Heard his voice. Not in her ears.

Somewhere else.

Why does the bush not burn up?

She’d asked the same question as a fifteen-year-old girl. She hadn’t known then. She certainly didn’t know now.

Again, the voice.

Why does the bush not burn up?

“I don’t know,” Maggie answered. “You must know. You tell me.”

A moment later, the fire blazed and Maggie fell to her knees. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe.

Because the presence she felt was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

In a moment, all was peace. Joy. Light. Compassion. Understanding.

In a moment, all was love.

Tears flowed down Maggie’s cheeks. Tears held back for months. Years. A lifetime. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, one blazing truth consumed her entire being: He is here. And all is well.

In a moment—in an instant—all the burdens slipped away. She knew they were all still there, that they still existed. But in this moment they were rendered powerless. Bowing in submission to a superior authority. The nightmares revealed for what they were—passing shadows on the wall, bits of darkness and fury here one instant and gone the next.

But he remained. Steadfast and unmoving.

The sandaled man.

Maggie wept and wept, deep sobs of release, fingers digging into the long grass, the fire’s warmth burning into the very depths of her heart. She was here, and the bush was here, and the sandaled man was here, and for the first time in as long as she could remember she wasn’t lost anymore.

She felt his hand on her head. Half opened her tear-filled eyes. Saw two calloused feet in a pair of well-worn sandals, glowing in the light of the bush that blazed without burning.

“Press on, dear one,” he said. “You’ll see this sight once more in your life.”      

Fifty Years Later

Maggie waved a weathered hand, smiling as her pastor, Michael, and his wife Gloria pulled out of the driveway and drove away. Such sweet young things. Wise beyond their years. Imbued with a love and depth of character that Maggie knew came only from the closest of walks with the sandaled man.

She gathered the teacups and dessert dishes from the coffee table—oof, when had the simple act of bending over become such a challenge? She scraped the coffee cake crumbs into the kitchen trash. She laughed to herself—that Gloria knew the direct line to her heart, didn’t she? If Maggie had one vice in all the world it was a truly excellent coffee cake—not too dense, not too dry, with just the right amount of sweet, crumbly crunch on top.

She crossed to the mantle and blew out the scented candle—Ocean Breeze. Her favorite. Made the whole sitting room smell like the seaside.

She fingered the framed photo beside the candle—an old black-and-white of her and Harris. “What do you think, Mr. W?” she said, running a thumb over his chest. “Good people, aren’t they?”

She surveyed the little sitting room. So quiet. When had that happened? Wasn’t this the room where children ran through with firetrucks and rubber-band guitars and plastic bows and arrows? How often she’d pleaded for five minutes of quiet. She smiled. What she’d give now for five minutes of noise.

 Funny how life went. So unexpected. A couple weeks after Maggie’s second encounter with the burning bush, she and Harris were presented with an unexpected situation: two children—a boy and a girl—from a neighboring town. Recently orphaned. No relatives. And just like that, the Williams family became four. A year later, they took in two brothers and became six.

The children brought Harris back to life. He taught them farming and woodworking and car repair. Endlessly patient, quiet and steady, he became the rock their new family needed. Maggie in turn entered their new life like one enters water—cautiously, then with a plunge.

Harris liked to say the children “sanded her down”—him and his carpentry metaphors. But he was right. Somewhere amidst all the chicken pox and pillow fights and dirty socks on the floor, the children rounded off her edges. Smoothed the rough spaces. Sanded down the burrs.

Through it all, there remained one thing above all that Maggie determined to instill in her children—a deep and abiding love for the sandaled man. To every day listen for his voice. Meditate on his words.  

It wasn’t an easy life. Especially with Harris’s condition. But they made it work. They were happy.     

And then it happened. Some innocuous Tuesday in the middle of May. One of the children—Benny, the youngest—fell off a stepladder while reaching for the cookie jar.  

And Harris leaped from his chair and caught him.

All these years later and goosebumps still broke across Maggie’s arms when she thought of it—her Harris, blinking in confusion, clutching the little boy in his arms. Staring down at legs that for the past two years had been useless as broomsticks.

The doctors had no explanation—a miracle they called it. And they were right. A miracle. But not the last one. Because no more than a year later, Maggie held a baby girl in her arms. Her own.

A new mother at almost forty years old.

Maggie scanned the wall of photos. Hard to take it all in—all the history. Not just of her family.

Of the town of Decision.

“There’s a little town just coming to life…” The words of the sandaled man from so long ago. She’d never anticipated how inseparably her life would be tied to that newborn town. But it was all here on the wall. Recorded in pictures. Opening day of the library she helped found. The local hospital where she served on the board for almost three decades. And right in the center—the warmth of her heart. “The Bird’s Nest Home for Children.” The foundation she and Harris formed which had helped hundreds of children find loving homes.

It was all here. A life in pictures. A certificate hung off to the side—Citizen of the Year. She remembered the night they’d handed it to her—a big party at Town Hall where they called her a “pillar of the community.” Even now it made her blush. She was no pillar. Just a woman who loved her town and the people in it. She didn’t need a party and certainly didn’t need a certificate. Give her laughing children and a slice of coffee cake and she was happy.

Maggie rubbed her eyes and turned from the mantle. Took stock of the room. The sitting room. When had she started calling it that? Probably when she began to do more sitting. It served its purpose though; gracious she did more entertaining now than when Harris was alive. Hardly a day went by that someone didn’t drop by on old Maggie Williams to hear stories about the town. She loved sharing the stories, loved the wonder in her listener’s faces as she recounted the tales of Decision, the people who built it, and the constant faithfulness of the sandaled man.

The grandfather clock in the corner—the one Harris constructed for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary—began to chime. “Well, old girl,” Maggie murmured to herself. “It’s probably about time to…”    

It happened suddenly. Quietly.

“Oh.” Maggie put her hand to her heart. Felt the spastic flutters beneath her fingers. She stumbled across the room and eased into the recliner as her pulse thrummed in her ears.

So this is it then.

She didn’t know it would come like this—such quiet certainty. Not a lot of fanfare and commotion. More like a librarian touching you lightly on the shoulder. Closing time.  

She let her eyes trail around the room. So much life lived in here. It had been years since the squeals of children reverberated off these walls, but she still heard them all. Plain as day.

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there he was.

The sandaled man.

Maggie smiled. “Hello.”

He smiled back. “Hello, Maggie.”

In her mind, Maggie ran back through all the years and all the days. All the times of laughter, all the moments of tears. As she did, she became aware of something she’d always known, but not consciously. Somewhere deep inside. “You’ve always been here.”

“Yes.”

She ran her fingers over the worn arm of the chair. “Were you…did you feel welcome here? I always wanted you to feel welcome.”

His smile reflected in his eyes. “I’ve always been comfortable here.”

Maggie scanned the room once more. Running through all the times. All the heartaches. All the joy. “You know,” she said quietly. “It was all very, very good. The good was good, and…” she paused. “The bad was good.” She cocked her head. Caught up in the awe of it. “How is that?”

The sandaled man shook his head. “My Father only does good.” He laughed softly. “He can’t help Himself.”

“You know…” Maggie felt a spark from that mischievous fire that in eighty-five years had never quite gone out. “You still owe me something.”

“Oh?”

“The burning bush. You said I’d see it one more time.”

Maggie couldn’t decipher the look on his face. Something like…merriment. Delight. A friend with a happy secret they can’t wait to share. He took her hand—such a soft touch for such calloused hands. “Maggie,” he said softly. “Do you still not know?”

She frowned, confused. Then followed his eyes across the room to the glassed-in fireplace. That’s odd. A fire glowed in the hearth. But she’d never turned on the fireplace.

She looked closer. Wait a moment…the fire wasn’t actually in the fireplace. It was a reflection. A fire reflecting off the glass.

The fire of a burning bush.

Maggie glanced around, confusion growing. Where is the reflection coming from? No burning bush anywhere, yet there was the reflection—clear as day in the glass. There was the coffee table, the rug, the chair. And there, blazing away in the seat of the recliner…

Maggie sank back, stunned. The reflection was her own.

“Me?” she whispered.

“Do you see?” The sandaled man smiled, eyes glistening. “A bush on fire that does not burn up. The mark of one touched by my Father—that which should be destroyed, yet is not.”

Maggie stared, unable to take her eyes from the glass.

“That night on the road,” he said. “You saw something that made you turn aside. You saw the hand of my Father. The sign of His touch.”

In a moment, Maggie relived all the trials of her life. All the hardship. The sorrow. The loss. The pain. For the first time she saw the truth which had always been in plain sight: she had not burned up. Through it all, there had been a preservation. A protecting hand. The covering of one body over the other.

The lash falling on another’s back.

“You,” she whispered. “You covered me. You brought me through.”

The sandaled man looked down at her hand. “There needs to be something different from the natural. Creation needs to see something different. Something that reveals glory. It can’t be that the bush should never see fire; my Father’s glory is revealed in one passing through fire and not burning up.” He patted her hand. “To come through not even smelling of smoke.”

Tears brimmed in Maggie’s eyes. Memories—memories so thick they nearly drowned her. Memories of fires. Memories of herself in those fires. “I didn’t…” she shook her head. “I was angry so many times. I was bitter and resentful so many times.” A tear streaked down her face. “I didn’t go through the fires well.”

The sandaled man reached up and swiped the tear away. “Dear woman,” he said gently. “You came through. No matter how hot the fire grew, you kept walking. You took what you had and gave it to your Father. You gave it all.” He shook his head. “There’s nothing more precious you could give.”

Warmth filled Maggie from head to toe. She found herself once more in the thick of that beautiful, simple silence whose name was holy. She’d encountered it countless times in her life, but never this thick. Never this beautiful.

She looked to the glass once more. Studied the reflection. Her reflection. The bush that blazed without burning. “So, what now?”

The sandaled man chuckled. “It’s getting late, young lady,” he said, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. “Shouldn’t you be getting on Home?”