You know those scented candles in glass jars, the just-for-decoration candles you see in many living rooms? Well, in our house, they got lit. Along with the votives on the bookshelves, the tall tapers on the table, and any other stray candle we could hunt up. Once a week, at dusk, we’d flop onto the couch (or the carpet). With overhead lights off, the room would grow dimmer, and the candles would glow brighter, and our hearts would become stiller. We’d talk about what God had done that week. We’d sing softly. We’d laugh. We’d sit and say nothing, just breathing in quietness.
Once, my area lost electric power for ten days, just before Christmas. Every night at ten, someone switched off the generator, and the throbbing hum we’d heard all day died into stillness. Even the refrigerator was silent. We lit candles or oil lamps with tall, glass chimneys, and somehow, the low, golden light communicated stillness to my heart.
For some folks, candles mean fine dining and romance. They can, I know. But for me, they spell deep, inner quiet, and long, creative thoughts. It seems that in the absence of visual “noise,” my heart and mind come alive. Some of my writing (including this blog post, and my very first Boundless article) has grown naturally and unexpectedly out of a dark room and a few Hanukkah candles.
Is there a better time for stillness than now?
Mary kept all these sayings, pondering them in her heart.
Elisabeth Adams 