“We lost hope,” I whispered to my husband sitting next to me in the church pew. Two of the Advent candles – Hope and Peace – had been lit earlier in the service. We were in the second row, so we could see them quite clearly. Hope caught my eye as it began to shrink and sputter. I felt unexpectedly dismayed as it got smaller and smaller until it disappeared. For whatever reason, I felt like it reflected my feelings about our country – its divisiveness, meanness, lack of respect for others. I had told my husband earlier, “For the first time in my life, I’m starting not to recognize our country. I’m missing the kindness, our welcoming culture, the can-do spirit we’ve had.” Here, right in front of me, Hope had gone out.
I had an urge to go relight the candle; we were closest to it, but had no match and I couldn’t disrupt the pastor’s sermon. So I simply sat quietly, but sad at the loss.
Later, Flack leaned over to say, “It’s still burning!” Surprised, I stared at the candle; ever so tiny, it was still lit. As the pastor preached his sermon on Patience, the candle seemed to take his message to heart, gaining strength and burning ever brighter. By the end of the service, Hope was burning fully and I was oddly relieved.
I don’t usually take my life cues from a candle, but somehow I was reassured that Hope, at least for me, did still exist. Sometimes it dims, but with encouragement and patience, it will grow yet again. I will keep my own sense of hope close to me.
by Kathleen Vestal Logan, MS, MA December 11, 2017