She watches. Adores. Yearns. How? How does she serve the One who pours out more of Himself than He has to give. How can she help Him refill Himself, recharge? Burning a two-ended candle is exhausting, dangerous. Eventually, something catches fire, the conflagration spreads, inferno rages, consuming everything.
She waits, hoping to help, to grasp the center, stolidly supporting. Perched precariously on the precipice, patient. Eagerly extending, she draws the candle closer, avoiding flames, admiring the beauty, the blaze, the brilliance. At last, closing her eyes, she embraces the flame.
Mischief's Muse 