Pioneer Christian Monthly - September, 1993

Wise Or Otherwise
Gardiner Skelley

It was always a special day in my childhood when we went to visit "Uncle Willie". Actually he was not a blood relative at all but rather he had the doubtful distinction of being my one and only "honourary uncle". It was a rank to which he had been elevated by virtue of his innate kindness, friendly disposition, not to mention his generosity at Christmas and birthdays!

He lived away up in a remote nook in the gentle foothills of south Fermanagh. 'Me winding paved road rose steadily to a point where we left it and took what was called "The Sandy Road". This also continued to climb until we reached the laneway to his house. The lane dipped steeply between high ditches where primroses bloomed in profusion in the springtime. On down we went across a little wooden bridge without sides or guardrails - a circumstance which always added a flutter of anxiety to the excursion. Beneath the well-worn planks a brown bog-water bum purled and chuckled its way over sandy shallows and sunlit rocks. By now we had almost arrived. A sharp rise and a lefthand turn brought us to Uncle's Willie's door and its warm welcome.

It was a picture post-card cottage; the lime-washed walls were white as the driven snow and the roof, it seemed, was perpetually clad in new golden thatch. Roses bloomed against the virgin white of the cottage wall and an ancient fuchsia spilled its royal red and purple hues in rich abundance over the wall of an old-world garden.

But it was the blue turf smoke, with its haunting tang in the nostril, curling from the chimney above the golden thatch which I recall especially. And that brings me to the point of this nostalgic pilgrimage. The smoke of course emanated from the hearth fire which was the dominant feature of the tidy kitchen. It was not only the sole source of heat and means of cooking but it was also the social centre of the household. It was the focal point of friendship and entertainment when the day's work was done and plain wooden chairs were drawn in an informal semi-circle around the broad hearth. It was then that great stories were spun with traditional celtic eloquence and even the occasional ghost story was thrown in for good measure. And we, little people kept as quiet as mice lest our parents be suddenly reminded that it was far past our bedtime and that we must be taken home at once!

But I want to tell you about the fire. It was never allowed to go out and when I was a boy it had been blazing and smouldering on that broad hearth, summer and winter, night and day, for over a hundred years! Incredible but absolutely true! Each night at bedtime the last lingering living embers would be drawn together in a little pile in the centre of the hearth, then new turf would be built around those red coals and finally the day's ashes, carefully conserved, would be heaped and banked over the new peat to produce the "air-tight" principle. And in the morning when the mound was opened up there was a lively fire burning at its heart. The secret was simply a matter of careful, conscientious tending for a hundred years!

It is, I suggest, a profound parable. For it is thus that the fire of Christian devotion is kept alive in our hearts. It is only by careful and constant attention to the great traditional spiritual disciplines of prayer, Bible study, public worship, deep personal reflection and loving Christian service that the fire of faith is fuelled. And when we tend it thus the fire will bum - sometimes with a cheery brightness; sometimes as a slow smoulder - but it will continue to bum. It will never go out.

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