When Mama died in September 2015, my relationship with the Lord changed. I’d been a Christian since I was a kid but it wasn’t until I was in a pit of depression and longing for my mother did I really come to realize why He died on the cross for me- for my sin, absolutely yes, but also for my pain. My hurt. My sorrow.

God reached right down from Heaven and lifted me up. He got me out of the bed on the days it seemed impossible. He gave me joy in mourning. Comfort in sadness. Purpose in pain. His Word and His promises spoke right to my heart. He gave me a peace that passeth all understanding.

What was I going to do with this joy? With this testimony of hope and restoration that can only be found through Him?

Well, I was going to tell others all about it. Podcasts. Blog posts. IG photos of sunsets inscribed with scriptures.

People are hurting. Lonely. Living in hell- going to hell. Bondage. Addiction. Affliction. Depression. They need to know the Way, the Truth, the Life. I was put here to tell them. I mourned a mama, a daddy, a step-daddy. I watched a positive pregnancy test turn negative. I knew heartache. Dysfunction. And it was all part of a greater plan- a testimony.

Because God was there every step of the way. Lifting. Sharpening. Comforting. Restoring.

And people needed to know.

They needed to know if I could get through it, they could get through it.

But one day I woke up, after being so on fire for the Lord and what He had done in my life- and nothing.

Nada.

Crickets.

No sizzle.

I skipped that morning in the prayer closet. I just wasn’t in the mood to study that day.

I skipped the next morning, too. And the next.

I went for a walk down the country road with my Spaniel by my side. I didn’t talk aloud to God as I usually did. Instead, I just talked to the dog about every rock and weed he sniffed.

I went to church. I didn’t take notes.

I fell asleep without praying.

The Bible stayed shut. The notepad empty from weeks before.

Repeat.

Oh, but great things still happened. Answered prayers. God-ordained opportunities. And I mumbled a, “Thank you, Lord.” instead of lifting my hands and truly praising His name.

I just didn’t feel it anymore. God was still good, I knew it, but the honeymoon seemed to be over. The butterflies had flown.

Fizzle. It had all fizzled.

Why do we do this, sisters? How can we be so on fire for our God one minute and bored with it all the next? As if our spirituality is related to our feelings? Aren’t we to love and praise and obey even when we don’t feel like it? Action is what matters. Not feelings or emotions. Feelings and emotions are fickle.

We can’t give Satan credit for everything. Lord knows I don’t want to be one of those Christians casting the devil out of every doorknob- but are we too stupid to see this is what pleases him?

The fizzle tickles Satan. The fizzle and the smolder. And eventually- weak rings of smoke are all that is left of what once was a raging fire. And he loves it. He revels in it.

He likes when we are indifferent. Apathetic. Stagnant. Lukewarm. Bored with the story of the greatest sacrifice of all time- the sacrifice that sets captives free.

He likes when we aren’t in the mood to pull out the NIV. Or talk to our Maker. Or when we fall asleep or eat the food without praying. When we can’t find the time to study, but we find the time for a Golden Girls marathon.

I don’t know about you, but God has been too good to me. He deserves more than being kept in a Sunday morning box. He deserves the blog posts and the IG pictures of stars and Psalms and hands raised to Heaven and shouting His goodness from every keyboard and every stage. He deserves that and so much more.

I refuse the fizzle and the smolder and to become nothing but a pile of ashes.

Refuse it with me. Rebuke it.

Fan the flame again.