Vigil candles a reminder of the undying flame of faith and love
Lorraine Murray’s email address is lorrainevmurray@yahoo.com.
I dreaded Christmas this past year, since it was the first one without my husband. I traveled alone to my cousins’ house in Florida, where a crowd of relatives feasted on Italian delicacies while the grandchildren — all eight of them — scampered about with toys.
At times, I found myself looking for my sweetheart, and then I’d escape from the room to say a prayer — and dwell on the glimpses of God’s shining love that were sustaining me.
There was, for example, that moment when my niece Alexis, 6, invited me to play, so we plopped down on the floor with a coloring book and were soon joined by her 3-year-old brother, Seth, a deft hand with a crayon.
And during the week, my cousins Julie and Chuck kindly took me on a road trip to Tarpon Springs, a small Gulf Coast village that is home to St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral, which I longed to see.
As we stepped into the serene sanctuary redolent of incense and adorned with stained-glass windows shimmering like jewels, I felt like I was being treated to a sweet glimpse of heaven.
At the entryway were fragrant, beeswax candles — handmade — which are said to burn for days. I lit one in memory of my husband, whispered a prayer and placed it carefully in the sand enclosure.
As a little girl, I relished lighting tapers before Mass because, not surprisingly, it was the only time my parents trusted me with an open flame.
After igniting the wick, I’d stand there, mesmerized, watching the flame valiantly resisting the breeze — and hoping it wouldn’t succumb.
I didn’t know it then, but the tradition of vigil candles comes from the early Christians who burned torches at martyrs’ tombs — symbolizing the mystical link between the souls in heaven and those still on earth.
Many years ago, my husband traveled to New York City and stopped by St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where — on a whim — he lit vigil candles in memory of his father and my parents.
That simple gesture in a city far away sparked a chain reaction that upended our lives.
You see, I was darkly skeptical of Christianity then — but his journey evoked a memory of childhood, when the sisters assured me Christ’s love could brighten the whole world.
I also remembered the scriptural passage that says, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”
Before long, I returned to my childhood faith, and my husband was received into the church at a vigil Mass soon after.
The sanctuary was totally dark that night until the stirring moment when the priest ignited a candle and said, “May the light of Christ … dispel the darkness of our hearts and minds.”
Now, each week before Sunday liturgy, I light a candle and pray for my husband, which is a small enough gesture, but a way of sustaining the flame of faith — and love — forever.
