he fire was never meant to die. It was meant to burn-unrestrained, unyielding, consuming everything in its path. It was supposed to spread, touching everything it met, marking territories, leaving a trail of glory in its wake. But now, where we once had a roaring inferno, there is only a flicker. The embers glow faintly, buried beneath the weight of time, the dust of complacency, the ashes of what once was.

This is how fire dies-not suddenly, but gradually. It is not drowned in a flood but starved of air. It is smothered, not by an outright storm, but by slow neglect. The altar remains, the form is intact, the motions continue, but the heat is gone. What once blazed with passion now barely survives on memory. What was once a furnace has become a flickering wick, gasping for breath.

Timothy, stir it up. Fan it into flames. Do not be deceived-the fire has not gone out completely. It is still there, waiting beneath the surface, buried under layers of exhaustion, hidden beneath the weight of battles fought and disappointments nursed. It is still there, longing to be breathed upon again.

But here is the tragedy: many have learned to live with dying embers. They have settled for the glow instead of the blaze, for the form instead of the fire. They still speak of the days when it burned hot. They still carry the language of revival, but their hearts have grown cold. They still raise the altar, but there is no sacrifice upon it.

The danger is never in losing the fire-it is in allowing the embers to grow cold. It is in learning to live with a dim glow while convincing yourself it is enough. It is in embracing the motions while ignoring the absence of the heat.

Elijah called down fire, but he first rebuilt the altar. He laid the stones, arranged the sacrifice, and poured the water-only then did the heavens respond. If you want the fire again, you must first make room for it. If you want the embers to burn, you must clear away the ashes that have settled where the flames once lived. You must remove the distractions, the weights, the comforts that have made you tolerate a fireless altar.

The winds are blowing again. The breath of God is hovering over the cold remains, waiting for someone who will refuse to settle for dying embers. Someone who will cry out like David, "Quicken me, O Lord!" Someone who will not be content with the flicker but will press in for the flames.

Timothy, fan it into flames. Shake off the dust. Break the silence. Tear away the veil of normalcy. The fire was never meant to die.

Let it burn again.