night

And these are the moments that break your heart for beauty.

The night is all around, all black shadowy hills and cold biting air and looming dark trees and mystery. And fire. That’s what they called us here for, after all—a bonfire with no marshmallows and no chocolate, only flames and faces and something so alive and pure I almost have to close my eyes.

And the fire is warm. I can’t really feel it—I’m too far away—but I can see the way the sparks float up and fade; I imagine they are fireflies being born right before our eyes, only they are too shy to shine their lights for long. Maybe they haven’t quite learned to fly yet and they don’t want us watching them struggle; don’t want those flickering lights to illuminate their unsteady paths and expose their inexperience. Or maybe they have learned—learned long before they were even born—and now they are all hiding behind the dark trees watching us learn how to sing.

That’s what the faces are doing: singing. I sing, too, except for the times when I stop to look around me and think, and I am afraid that my mouth will trade the lyrics for my thoughts and the faces will stare at me in confusion. Those are the times when I lean back and watch the fireflies and ask God to forgive me for being so ungrateful because everything is so lovely it makes me ache. The night is beyond grand and I am infinitesimal but the faces are calm.

Friends. That’s what the faces are. They’re the friends who hiked up here with me to enjoy the songs and the darkness, but right now all I see are faces: eyes reflecting the light of the flames and the warm echo of something deeper; mouths that smile when a wrong chord on the old acoustic brings them back to earth; lips that move in silent, humbled prayer.

The song ends but the people still worship and these are the moments that touch His heart forever.

This is what they prayed:

Make me braver than the fireflies.

a.n. just got back from church camp. this was the bonfire on the last night of it.