Freeing Candles

Before Winston-Salem added its Winston - and its namesake tobacco companies - it was just Salem, a thriving community planned by a group of religious refugees who called themselves Moravians. The Moravians were ahead of their time in many ways; in particular, they opened a college to educate young women several centuries before women’s suffrage was even on the radar. While other religious sects wanted women to sit and home and tend the babies, Moravian women were reading and writing and creating.

Moravian culture is woven seamlessly throughout Winston-Salem, and never is it more evident than Christmas. The unique Moravian star hangs, illuminated, from local porches and homes set out an elaborate Christmas village display, called a putz. Central to the Christmas holiday are the candles, which children hold while they sing Christmas songs at a traditional service they call a Love Feast. And because the Moravians were masters of food, these services also feature creamy coffee and warm rolls. What’s not to love?

For the past two years, the kids and I have attended a Candle Tea. Set in the living history museum of Old Salem, the love feast teaches kids about the making and symbolism of the candles and ends with a lighted retelling of the Christmas story and an acapella version of “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. Every year when we enter the room where they make the candles, my Moravian friends breathe deeply and sigh. For them, the smell of beeswax is as much a part of Christmas as the scent of pine.

This year, an elderly woman dressed in period garb showed us how they knot pieces of cloth to the bottom of the candle mold. “We have to keep the wax in here while the candles harden,” she told us. “Otherwise, it would just run out.” She poured the boiling wax into the mold and set it aside to harden. Before we left the room, she returned to the mold. The wax was hard now, and the candles needed to come out. She grabbed a sharp knife, turned the mold upside down, and began ripping the knots she’d tied a few minutes earlier.

“These knots that were once so important to our candles are now just in the way. They’re preventing us from seeing the finished product,” she told us. With one last swipe of the knife, the fabric gave way and eight tiny candles flew out of the mold. The crowd gasped. I thought to myself that it must be very gratifying to give a presentation to a group of homeschooled elementary-aged kids. They are very easily impressed.

Once free, the candles were ready for the red tissue decoration that goes around the bottom, and decoration that symbolizes the blood of Christ and protects tiny hands from dripping wax. The Moravians were poetic and practical, bless them. Once assembled, the workers put them in a tray that holds hundreds of candles. The sight of the red and yellow candles, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the centuries-old window will forever be one of my favorite Christmas memories. Each year, I think nothing could be more beautiful.

But I couldn’t help but think about the candles and those knots. Those knots that were once so important, until they became in the way. It struck me as a vivid lesson about letting go. I had no idea how applicable it would become. Or maybe I did. Maybe that’s why it struck me.

I bet that candle mold was warm and comfortable, not unlike a comfortable job with regular paychecks and benefits. Don’t get me wrong: those are important things that I hope will be part of our lives again soon. But that comfortable mold was also preventing them from growing, from fulfilling their purpose, from lighting the room, not unlike the way I had grown comfortable accepting my broken marriage, skipping opportunities for growth, and putting my writing on the back burner. As much as I want justice for our family, and medical benefits, and a regular paycheck like the one we lost, the tearing of these particular knots have set something in me free. It’s time to grow again. Time to grow in my faith in God. Time to grow in my faith in prayer. Time to grow in my confidence that God will provide. Time to use that scripture that I’ve been devouring with the kids in their Awana books. Time to step back into writing, not just editing. Time to demand counseling and insist that God has more for me than this crippling anger and hurt.

When you’re online late at night, filling out applications so your kids can get Medicaid, it helps to feel a sense of purpose. It helps to look back at that late November field trip and realize God was speaking through an elderly woman and a candle mold.

My former pastor referred to this as pruning: removing something seemingly good in order to make room for something better. I really hope there’s something better out there, and not years of trying to start over - again. This whole thing is a load of crap, but I trust God can use loads of crap to heal and protect us.

It seems like every other verse in the Bible promises God will protect and provide for us, and each time I hear one, my mind argues back, “Well, not the way you would want for yourself.” But that’s just not true. This is a God who gives us immeasurably more than we could ask or imagine. Just look at the life we’ve lived for the last year and a half, when I was sure we’d be barely scraping by. Instead, we paid off a car and nearly all James’ student loans. We went to the beach multiple times. We ran races. We explored this magnificent new home. I homeschooled the kids and they thrived. And I was so afraid we’d be dirt poor and life would suck.

I believe this happened when it did so that James wouldn’t be so comfortable in his former job that he’d miss a better opportunity. There’s someone out there looking for him right now. We need to figure out who. And in the meantime, we get to experience God in a whole new way. I just realize hope he provides something other than Medicaid. You know, something with benefits.

So please pray for us. Pray for peace. Pray for miraculous provision. Pray for doors to open that we thought were impossible. And please pray for protection. And rest. It has been a month, that’s for sure. We could use some rest.

Daughter

As I was getting ready for bed last night, a tiny figure emerged into the dark hallway. The glow of the nightlight illuminated her, tiny arms raised high above her head, as she ran toward the sound of my footsteps.

I’m not sure there’s anything that melts my heart like the sight of my daughter unapologetically reaching for me. Yes, she could totally get the bathroom and use the potty on her own, but I’ll carry her every time. Because she reaches for me with so much hope and expectation. Yes, sometimes I’m tired and get annoyed and grumble that I have ten thousand things to do that don’t involved picking up a three-year-old, but I pick her up nonetheless. Because she reaches for me. I can’t resist.

I suppose it’s no accident that God compares himself to a father. That’s not for the benefit of the children out there, it’s for the parents. It’s for the people who understand how your heart melts and how you’ll do anything to care for the children who reach for you. The only time my heart comes close to understanding how God views me is when I think about my love for my children. I don’t expect anything; I just adore them. I can’t help it.

The last decade has left me deeply hurting, deeply scarred. It’s been remarkably devoid of love in the parts of my life that should be defined by love’s abundance. I’ve had to defend my very existence, work harder than I ever thought I could work, and accept treatment I should have to accept. I can assure you that when I reached my arms up and begged for help, the person on earth who should have done that sneered and turned away. I’ve been left utterly alone.

I’m defined by that response. I don’t ask for help. I find a way to handle it, whatever it is. That’s better than rejection.

But I can’t handle this situation now. I can’t run out and get a full-time job with benefits and toss my kids in childcare. I can’t afford childcare working in my profession. I can’t afford a private school for my kids. I can’t do anything at all to motivate my husband to look for a new job…to understand the breadth of his responsibility to his family. I am, frankly, stuck.

I mean, yes I can try to take on more work. But it won’t get us medical benefits. And there’s really no more time in my days to do more. I’m exhausted and wrecked as it is.

But the one thing I can do is look to God. And my daughter reminds me that when I lift my hands to him, he doesn’t sneer at me. He’s not frustrated with me. He doesn’t shrug and say, “You got yourself into this. I guess you’ll figure it out.” He doesn’t turn over in the bed and ignore me. When I lift my arms to Him, He scoops me up. He helps me, whether I deserve it or not. He defends me. He comforts me. I can’t see what He’s doing on my behalf, but He promises to do it.

I can’t depend on the human I hoped I could. But I can depend on someone much greater. And He looks at me with love.