Ecclesiastes 8: 15
The city burns behind us. The flames from the buildings introduce brilliant shades of orange and yellow and red to the black canvas of the night sky. We hear the screams of the residents trapped in that burning display of God’s wrath. Maybe part of us wants to reach out and help those people, but it’s a small part. All we love and care about is here with us. Somewhere a clock is ticking down. Our time is running short.
While a hundred and fifty years of man’s creation is reduced to molten puddles of steel, hot coals, and heavy gray ash, the fifteen or twenty of us packed into this bar pass shots of whiskey, belt out our favorite songs off key and loud as hell, flirt, laugh, cry…we’re making sure that nothing is missed. Nothing can be forgotten. Nothing can be left unsaid.
“Do you remember the time when…”
“I always wanted to tell you…”
“My wife is going to be pissed when…”
“Do you want to go out back and…”
“You want me to show you my…”
“Seriously man, you’re fine. We’ve all…”
Conversations swirl through the group. Everyone is talking to everyone. The group grows and our circle broadens. There are still our individual subgroups. The three of us. The four of them. Those two over there. But those pairings and groups only make the larger circle stronger.
The fire begins to breach the outer limits of the city. Flames spread across the dry grass of the countryside, cutting a blackened path directly to the foot of our hill. Rabbits, mice, snakes, all struggle to keep ahead of the burning death that pursues them so furiously.
We’re not oblivious to the destruction of the city. Nor are we unaware that this same thing is happening all over the world. But we know that we have a choice. That clock is going to hit zero no matter what. We can fret and worry and panic, or we can meet death on our own terms. Our last moments will be moments of joy in what we have. They will be bittersweet remembrances of what we once had. They will be quiet musings over what could have been. We will die as we lived…experiencing life rather than simply be propelled forward through it.
The fire is at the door. There is no speech making. There is no final toast. By the time the blaze finds us, the night has grown quiet. The circle is still there, but we’ve all broken into our smaller groups again. Lovers embrace. Friends hold each other’s hands. The taste of the rare bourbon that sat hidden behind the bar owner’s safe is savored with every sip. There are tears. There are smiles. Some of us still sing. All of us are certain that we met the end as it should be met.
The fire consumes us, but it doesn’t destroy us.
