Candle Power

Candle Power

Noel Laflin

October 24, 2000

It has been an autumn of prayers and candles.  I don’t quite recall, in recent memory, when so many loved ones have been this ill.  I have become well stocked with candles.  I have whispered a litany of prayers.

      

My father’s candle is centered on my old wooden dining room table, where I am writing at this moment, watching my daughter sleeping peacefully upon the couch.  Its early morning, still dark outside and the candles are lit.  Here at this table, where so many good meals have been enjoyed, domino tournaments played out till the wee hours of the night and  quiet conversations over strong cups of  coffee have been held, I enshrine my small votive with smooth river stones.  Stones from sacred places I have visited, some time and again like the Virgin River in Zion, or the edge of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and the coastline of Big Sur.  There are even stones from the banks of the Zambezi in Africa.  All hallowed places to me.  They sit guard around this candle since my father’s fall earlier this month and subsequent stay in the hospital and nursing facility.  My prayer is for his recovery of limbs, remembering how to stand and walk once more.  Other prayers are for the pneumonia and high fevers to dissipate, his sense of balance to return, his memory not to wander as it has recently.  The flame within the rocks toys with me as it flickers high and low, mimicking my spirits these past three weeks.  I like to be near this candle.

I have lit candles for friends and family throughout the years in this home of mine.  Many no longer burn on a nightly basis, but at special remembered times and anniversaries.  Some do not stay alight for long, such as the one for a friend’s father, which only burned for a week, and then was put away upon his death. The candle for Buddy, the cat, flickered for just a few minutes before drowning itself in soft wax.  I quickly replaced it, feeling guilty for the sputtering flame, which was no more.  But Buddy died that night, nonetheless.  My token ritual was not enough.

 

There are some nights, as I walk about the room, extending the flame to each wick, when I stop and panic. 

“Who have I forgotten?” I wonder.  A name, a face escapes me momentarily.  I recite the litany of names, I count on my fingers.  “Ah, yes, OK.  All accounted for.” I proceed about my nightly chores feeling like the forgetful village lamplighter of years gone past.

 

It has gotten to the point where I need one more candle to stand in quiet vigil for all of the others currently touched by pain and illness - the never-ending list is discouraging.  This candle sits near the front door to my home, greeting visitors and friends with its fragrant scent and deep red color.

I don’t want my home to be a shrine dedicated only to the ill.  I love candles when they fill the room with soft, romantic shadows on the wall or blaze with the anticipation of Christmas or the Winter Solstice. Sometimes I just like a candle for company to help me through the lonely nights and dark early mornings.  But the wicks are aflame for other purposes lately.  And whispered prayers to the many names for God linger in the room as I light another and another and yet another.

           

           

.