The fire cracked open the deep crevices of his face. Firelight, firelight on and under and in the remnants of his face. Firelight dragged up what he once was; young, passionate, able to press the muscles of his insistence on the course of the world and change it’s path. Once he uprooted his family to travel on the wings of the Gospel, twice he dug up his family, three times and more for the cost, for the glory. The firelight borrowed him its glowing so that in it, his old glory shone. But youth, and fire burn to cold.
Now he sleeps at the fire and though the flame shines, he is old. He does not move, not to new towns. When he moves it is to summon great energies upon himself to paint. He drives through the few places that know him and people throw jobs at him. First this door to fix and then this room to scrub and
paint. A new energy is on him as in age he learns to build chairs, and in broken families he paints a fresh coat of heritage red on the door frame. The mundane man who nightly dreams of when he had visions, now holds visions, like a brush in his hand. Like a small golden pellet of glory in his hand is the single stroke of up as he paints what he used to pray; redemption
