Pyromania

She runs, her bare feet clinging to the hardwood floor, as the sounds of hard blows and unmuffled screams throb in her ears. Her grimy little hand grasps the cold brass knob of the heater closet, her safe, warm place. Eyes round, she peers carefully around her as she closes the door and lowers her torn body to the dusty floor. Puffs of cooler air from the heater’s return scuttled over her crossed legs as she positions her body to cover the crack under the door. The light disappears and with it, the security she should have gotten by locking herself away. Small and alone, her hands helplessly survey the dusty floor. She is searching. Searching for something to hope in.

Hope comes in the form of a small object lying near her feet. It is a box made of some kind of paper, smooth on top and bottom, rough on the sides. A rustle of tiny objects inside the box piques her curiosity. Opening the box, she picks out one small item and rolls it between her fingers. She can feel that it is a small squared off wooden stick with rounded top. As her mind identifies the object she grasps between two fingers, her imagination is released. She holds freedom between thumb and forefinger. Grasping the match in one hand and the box in the other, she places the tip to the rough surface of the side of the box. The scratching sound and the blue streak of light across the dotted cardboard is followed by millions of shards of yellow light and then one tremendous flash of white flame. Washed in its small but strong light, she is in the center of everything. She sees all.

Reassurance comes to her troubled mind. All outside sounds and thoughts vanish as her eyes gaze intently at the world of wonder she hold in her hand. It is a wand, and she is the princess. She breathes in the rich intoxicating smell of sulfur. A smile plays around the corner of her mouth. Her golden hair glows, illuminated by the aura. As the flame begins to quickly recede, panic once again invades her mind. The fire must not die. Intuitively she inverts her hand, willing the flame to revive and travel up toward her hand, leaving the stick behind it blackened and shriveled. A short burning thrill to her fingers brings her to reality. She drops the match. The flame goes out. Only a tiny glowing red ember remains on the cold hard floor as invisible smoke releases and fills the space. The red light fades. Once again she sits in darkness, small and alone. But never powerless again.

Have you ever felt like the little matchstick girl? So powerless in your life that you are searching for something that can give you some control? When we look for a source of power outside of God, often we take refuge in something harmful. We think we have found some measure of control, when we have really become dependent on something with the potential to control us and ultimately destroy our lives.