concerned with candlelight

Just the end of the year.

On Christmas Eve night, I stole flame from a fellow celebrant to light my candle while a song almost like “Silent Night” played softly. A circular piece of cardboard braced the plain, white stick to keep hot wax from dripping onto my hand.

The lights were almost out inside the chapel. A bulb here or there left burning for ambiance.

But the lights were almost out—which is appropriate because it seems as though, quite often, the lights are almost out in our world.

I focused on the flame in my hand—it felt as if it was the most I’d really focused on something in a while. The wick was crooked, but the flame stretched upward, straight and narrow. When I exhaled, the flame bristled as if offended, as if I’d just threatened its life. How dangerous yet fragile a thing!

But that’s the nature of life. The nature of hope. The nature of beauty.

Fragile, yet dangerous. Easily corrupted and ruined, yet strong and potent.

Everlasting and somehow tangled with death. Like Christ himself, tangling with Death till he’d drunk it to its draughts.

That is what remains with me from this year. How desperately we need to fight for the good, for life, for hope, for beauty. How we must necessarily tangle, because none of this is a given. It is here, and it is gone. And if we are to survive abundantly, we must play infinite games in a finite world.

Yes, the lights are nearly out—or, sometimes, so it seems. Hence we must steal flame, shelter it, nourish it, and be primarily concerned with candles.