One night last week a terrible oil smell permeated our house. Having been the victim of two furnace fires in my life, I quickly switched off the emergency button and checked for a fire in the basement. There were no flames, only the cold silence of a deadened machine shrouded with the heavy aroma of fossil fuel. The hour was late, both my children and I were developing colds, and we all needed sleep. So I cracked open windows and decided that the dreaded phone call to the service company would have to wait until morning.

I gathered as many blankets, sleeping bags and afghans as I could find and covered my two slumbering teenagers. On this particular night I would have welcomed a hot flash or two, but alas I was resigned to find warmth only from a mountain of covers and a bewildered cat. As I lay there contemplating the possibilities of doom and gloom that surely lay before my beleaguered furnace, I was struck by the uncanny parallels to the human heart in crisis.

Without the constant pumping of blood, without the perpetual circulation of passion and desire, hope and persistence we cannot exist. Sometimes the weight of despair and fatigue hangs over us like a thick cloud that will not disperse, and the fire inside us doesn’t get enough oxygen or spirit to keep burning. When our physical and emotional systems become overloaded, we don’t operate efficiently, and every beat becomes an effort until we can’t function any longer. Sometimes we are so busy trying to make everything work, that we can’t see the warning signs until it’s too late. If we’re lucky, those around us will push a few emergency buttons and remind us to stop and get some help.

So that’s what I did for my ailing hearth. I called the service company in the morning and this great guy named Joe came to fix my furnace. He took it completely apart and explained how it was misfiring and working too hard. It needed some adjustments, a major spa treatment of cleansing and oil massage, a new eye sensor to better self-regulate itself. For three hours he lovingly put my furnace back together. He gave it more oxygen and rekindled its fire. A lovely purring sound emanated throughout the house. My frozen fingers began to thaw. The newly heated water pipes began to drip a tiny bit. "Tears of joy," he said. I believed him. I wondered if he fixed human beings, too.

When some people become overwhelmed and the fire in their personal furnace goes out, they call upon the likes of Jesus and Jehovah to bring them relief. A great guy named Joe taught me that we too can be trained to bring comfort to the afflicted. All it takes is some knowledge of the human heart, a tender touch, a willingness to hold all the pieces in our hands, and enough spirit to blow upon the embers. Then, perhaps, we can all bask in the warmth of life’s glow. Then, perhaps, we can all breathe a little easier.

Of course, a spa treatment does sound equally revivifying!

From my hearth to yours. . .

Cindy