But this is an aside.
Last night, after the Holy Thursday Mass, we had a Eucharistic procession around the church.
As we got ready to leave the church with the Eucharist, ushers handed us candles. Starting with the priest, and then the altar servers, each person passed the light from their candles on, until the whole church was lit with many little glowing lights.
And then we walked outside to join the procession.
I walked with John. The wind was not overpowering, but soon my little candle blew out. I leaned over and lit my candle from John's. A little while later, his candle went out, and I re-lit it.
As we walked around the corner in the dark, chilly night, we saw these little flames burning. Some people held their hands close to their candles, guarding the wind from blowing out the wick. Some people were much more careful than me. My candle blew out again.
I looked around, and it was getting darker and darker as the candles of our little procession burned out.
This short procession brought home many thoughts to me. I thought about the flame itself - like the fire of my faith. Lit when I was younger, officially at baptism, but in my heart, around age sixteen. It's been through many beatings and been rolled around a lot since then. Walking outside with a candle into the dark and the wind, is kind of like walking in the world with faith. There is a lot that will test that flame.
Walking with others, holding candles - this brought to mind the many friends that have shared that faith with me through the years. Going to church together, sharing the deeper questions, or doubts, or concerns - encouraging and counseling each other on what to do. There have been times that I was stumbling or wavering, or when the "flame" of my candle was in danger of being blown extinguished, when a well-timed conversation or a friend stepped in to help ignite that candle again.
I thought of walking this journey with John, too, and how helpful it is to have a "friend" (sorry, John) to walk with, who can help me when I fall - who I can help when he falls. It was a great moment of insight about the meaning of marriage.
But then, too, was a time when both of our flames had gone out. And then, it was the flames of the other people in our procession that kept us going. Just like in marriage - we will be a small community, a "domestic church," but sometimes even we will not be enough - we need the larger community for help, encouragement, and light.
And then, there was a time when we were walking, and many flames had gone out. Some people, I noticed, were guarding their candles as if life depended on it. They weren't able to see the people who needed light - they just wanted to keep their own lit. I realized that sometimes I can be like this - so fearful that I won't have what I need, that I am slow to share what I have. To walk in the cold, dark world takes both that diligence in keeping your flame lit, and also the surrendering of that light to those who need it.
After a while, I noticed one flame - burning brightly alone. And then, I noticed that many people were drawn to this light, and went over to see if they could light their candles again.
These lonely lights are like the saints, in my mind - people who live the faith in an extraordinary way. These people have a way of drawing us back to our faith again. They give us hope. For me, some of those lights have been Dorothy Day, Mother Theresa, St. Teresa of Avila, or even St. Margaret Clitherow, or St. Thomas More. There is something so rich and beautiful about these lives, that I am drawn back to Christ through them.
As we walked, more and more people went back to reignite their flames, and then we came in view of the church again.
It was an apt reminder of what it means to be a Christian, and what it means to be one Body.
