A is for ASHES

Every night in our home, shortly after the late news bulletin had faded on the radio, my dad would begin the ritual of removing the ashes from the old Wellstood cooker that had taken centre stage in our kitchen long before my sister or I had grabbed our parents' attention. It was a simple enough task, since all the ashes conveniently fell into a rectangular 'bucket' that could be removed by attaching it to the hooked end of a poker. The ashes, still hot and smoking, were taken outside and sprinkled in an area where they would cause neither obstruction nor an unsightly vision to visitors. And so this routine continued, long into my late teens until they discovered oil on the farm, which arrived by lorry and was stored in a large tank that was more unsightly than any mound of ashes. Alas, the old Wellstood,no longer of any use, was ripped out unceremoniously and in its place soon stood a bright new oil-fired cooker. Nothing much changed.There was certainly less dust around the kitchen and the floor area close to the cooker required less washing and dad was still able to perch his legs on the rail at the front of the cooker while reading the paper from the comfort of his armchair, safe in the knowledge that he could listen to the late news and then go directly to bed.But the heat level remained the same. Though most people could only remain in the kitchen for a short time before escaping to the relative coolness of the pantry, mum and dad, particularly in his later years, seemed comfortable with the equatorial temperatures and slightly bemused at the reddening, exasperated expressions of others.

I continued the ritual, to some degree, after I was married, though removing ashes from an open fire was an altogether more difficult task and fraught with worry in the hope that no trace was dropped on the new carpet or rug that adorned the living room floor. On one occasion, I made the mistake of emptying the warm ashes into a plastic bucket and leaving it oustide. Shortly afterwards, a bright glow on a very dark night, outside our back door grabbed my attention and I grabbed a bucket of water to extinguish a small fire that had taken hold and spread to the neighbouring plastic coal bunker. When all had calmed down, alongside a larger pile of wet ashes, a sizeable hole in the bunker became an eternal reminder of my foolishness. Now, I don't light fires in the house at all, except for the occasional candle, but my love for gazing into hot coals and dancing flames, in moments of pensiveness, has resulted in the arrival of an outdoor chiminea this summer, so that on a more irregular basis and entirely dependent on our unpredictable weather, the ritual has started all over again and small mounds of white, powdery ash have begun to settle in far flung corners of the garden.

We often associate ashes with bad times and death and on many occasions I have stood and listened at a graveside to those words, 'ashes to ashes.' There are many biblical examples of how ashes became part of the ritual of mourning and Job is a fine example of someone who, in his frustration and sadness, 'sat among the ashes.' But the Israelites also used ashes as a form of purification or cleansing, (Numbers 19v9), before Jesus became the ultimate sacrifice for sin.There is something very final about ashes but, as I found to my cost, a breath of fresh air can often relight a fire. Let God breathe new air into us again and rekindle our flame.