Candelabra

The word itself is delightful, conjuring up images of romantic Italy and exotic Spain.

In my mind, it’s always the center of a peaceful night time scene, where friends share favorite old stories, and lovers share just-between-us dreams.

In my home, it gently slows my pace, and I discover that I no longer talk, but only whisper.

Like a midnight snowfall, it gently quiets the world and makes time stand still.

One evening my wife hosted my parents for dinner. To our finest tableware, flower bouquets, and simple music, she added a special touch. My father sensed something was different. Tea lights flickered on tabletops, votives glowed behind colored glass, and a simple candelabra illuminated the ceiling. His eyes grew wide as he realized there was no electric light. “It’s beautiful,” he told us. Nearly 10 years later, that memory still makes us smile. With his recent passing, that memory is one of our most treasured.

Last Christmas, my wife greeted my gift with tears of delight: a pair of matching candelabras. For our new home someday, I promised. She’s already put them up.

A lighted candelabra always blends my memories of what has been with my dreams of what’s to come. It reminds me of who I’m from and who I’m with, of what I’ve been given and what I have now. In my busy scattered moments, it quietly catches my eye and reminds me of who I am.