I have never outgrown my childhood fascination with candles — I'm staring at one right now. The most amazing thing about a candle is the wick. How can a three-inch piece of string burn for hours?
The answer, of course, is that it doesn't. The heat of the flame pulls liquid wax from the reservoir below. It's the wax that burns. The wick is merely a vessel used for transport.
I am a wick. I am kindled to flame by fire from above. It brings me to life and causes me to blaze with longing. The one who awakens me provides a limitless supply of fuel. As I keep my wick deeply immersed, the miracle of the flame is effortless and full of glory.
When I set out to burn from my own resources, I am reduced to a three-inch piece of string, burned to cinders in a matter of seconds, left to complain from the ashes that the universe is unfair to demand so much from a pitiful wick as me.