I don't have a poem ready, I wasn't even inspired. I didn't even remember it was the first day of autumn . . . until it was nearly gone.
But I saw candles that night. Autumn candles. Glowing. Dancing.
And I thought, "How very much like us."
Who knew the meaning of love when we reached our fingers and touched the blood pooling beneath His hand. When Mary held Him. Dead, weeping. Forgetting. Then I wept, too.
How very much like me, when He keeps my candle burning deep within me, when my light is threatened by a wind. How fragile I feel. How unprotected. And then I remember.
When the world was dark, when I thought death had no limit. He lit His flame, His candle dazzling the darkness, burning still when even the deepest of nights entangled the world. He lit His candle so He could light mine.
I remember what we all forgot.
Death is limited. Even when we die, death has an end. When the Loving Hand reaches down and brushes it away, saying, "It is enough." He keeps my candle burning, though all the rest is blackness and I can't see beyond the flame.
When it has died to a flicker, a spot of orange in a black sea, then He breathes me to life again. Reaching higher and higher. A golden streak crossing a lightening horizon waiting for me. Us. You.
Candles burn the brightest when it is darkness night. Brighter still when you remember . . .