Innocence

My good friend Debbie’s mother passed away a few years ago. The funeral was in Duluth, about 3 hours away. When I got to the funeral the reception area was already full of people.

I walked around until I found Debbie and her daughter Elisha, talking to some relatives. At the time Elisha was five years old, and she was adorable in her brand new dress and cute little shoes. After talking to me for a bit, Debbie asked Elisha to show me the picture that she had drawn for the funeral.

Elisha took my hand and led me over to a table where various drawings from the grandchildren were displayed. Just as we reached the table, she suddenly let go of my hand and stared up at me intently. She had a look of deep concentration on her face.

I stared back, wondering what she could possibly be thinking. After a few moments, she came to a decision. “You’re handsome,” she said, in a very matter-of-fact manner. She uttered this assessment with the utmost confidence, and then turned and showed me the picture that she had drawn without another thought on the matter.

Elisha had never seen me so dressed up before, and I guess it must have made an impression on her. But regardless of the circumstances, her comment was such a pure, undeniable truth in her mind that it melted straight through my heart.

After the funeral, all the kids went outside to release balloons filled with helium that they had written messages on for their Grandma. We all gathered around to watch as they released them to the sky. It was a windy, overcast day, and the balloons quickly soared away from the parking lot. We watched them go, whirling and dancing as they became smaller and smaller. They were soon out of sight, and everybody began turning away and leaving the funeral.

As the crowd cleared, I saw little Elisha standing by herself and staring up at the sky. I looked up, and following her line of sight I could just barely make out one last tiny dot against a gray cloud far, far away. Everybody else had left, but Elisha was still standing there watching.

She was waiting to see if Grandma got her balloon.

Confession

I take the feelings that she brushed

with her words

with her breath

The feelings inside

that I am unable to find

alone

And once discovered

I sink my fingers into them

I dig them out

Formless emotions

smeared on my fingertips

I use them

to paint my words

For you

For all of you

But the feelings are mine

they do not belong with her

I do not share this love

and I wonder

if I ever will

Candlelight

I sit alone in my room, contemplating the flickering light on my table.

How easy it is to see our lives like a candle.

A candle begins fresh and new. Taken from a protective wrap, it is displayed to the world for all to see. The wick is lit and it begins to burn. At times it burns higher or lower, brighter or dimmer. At other times it appears to be completely motionless. It charts a steady linear course down the path of its life until it is consumed, leaving behind a bent and blackened form.

How beautiful it was in life, but now it is gone -- never to burn again.

But the life of a candle is more than wick and wax. The true life of a candle is in the light that it gives off while it burns.

Think of the darkness that was dispelled by that light, even if for a little while. What calming effect did it bring during its existence? What children found safety and comfort it its glow? What words of knowledge were learned under its light; words that influenced another to go out and change their life -- or the world? What love was shared in its dancing shadows? What warmth was added to the room by its presence?

Is the light not as useful at the bottom of the wick as when it was first lit?

Does its influence truly end after it is gone?

The life of a candle does not only progress in one direction. A candle also radiates outward, and it is in this direction that it is truly immortal.