Smoor

A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench. – Isaiah 42:3 (NRSV) 

A friend’s beloved father died after a grueling sickness. “I get why, when you’re mourning, you’re supposed to cover yourself with ashes,” she said wearily. “It’s like those Scottish houses where the hearth fire hasn’t gone out for centuries because they smoor it every night. That’s what I need. I’m just going to smoor myself for a while.” 

I had the same question you do, so she explained. Smooring the fire means covering it with ashes before bed. This keeps the embers burning gently all night; the fire can be easily resurrected with a few breaths and a little fuel in the morning. A smoored fire doesn’t burn bright; it just sort of glows a little. It doesn’t light the room and boil the water and keep everybody warm. But it’s not dead, either. It’s just waiting, letting you rest without worry until you have the oomph to tend it again. In olden days, they took this so seriously they used to say that if the fire ever went completely out, the people of the house would lose their very souls. 

This Advent, if you’re feeling like my friend, like burning as hot and bright as normal will just burn you out and leave you soulless, don’t worry. If you don’t have it in you to shine, or sparkle, or twinkle, then pull a blanket of ashes up over your head for a while. Smoor yourself; you deserve it. We’d rather have you at a dim glow than have you go out altogether. 

I promise, when the time is right, all it will take is a few strong breaths to set you to crackling again. 

Prayer
Breathe on me, Breath of God. But not yet. Amen.

About the Author
Quinn G. Caldwell is Chaplain of the Protestant Cooperative Ministry at Cornell University. His most recent book is a series of daily reflections for Advent and Christmas called All I Really Want: Readings for a Modern Christmas. Learn more about it and find him on Facebook at Quinn G. Caldwell.