In my last entry, I confessed that I’m a word nerd. Unfortunately, this condition involves more than just an obsession with dictionaries. It also entails a fixation on encyclopedias. Maybe it’s because I had an incredible fifth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Sease. She made sentence diagramming fun. I didn’t fair so well in science though, but don’t tell my son—I’m not ready to blow my cover. He still marvels in the legend that his mom knows everything. His older sisters have already discerned the truth: The wisdom of the Mother Tribe is a fable older than Santa Claus.
While I was writing my next blog entry, I got sidetracked and did a little research on matches, all because of the metaphor I used in my opening paragraph. My friend, Wikipedia, had the nerve to point out how much I resemble a match head. Some friend—didn’t even try to sugar coat his analysis. According to him, I was reminded that match heads contain a constant potential for fire but a flame won’t burn until the heat of friction strikes its surface.
Ouch. That does sound a lot like me. I guess I am a match head. Without adversity, far too often, my flame for God lies dormant too. Friction…has a way of heating us up, doesn’t it?