From the archives:
Mrs. Patterson.
She was our speech coach when I was in high school. A sweet, grandmotherly sort, who hovered and cooed and generally let us know we were loved. We were talented. We were terrific. We deserved a Christmas party, and she threw one at her house over Christmas break every year.
She had a lovely, grandmotherly house, too. Her Christmas lighting was simple: candles in the windows. Electric candles, yes, but the effect on on me was magic. Subtle and cozy and lovely ... they beckoned. And, once inside, in the Patterson fold, she confirmed that beckoning: "When you have all graduated, and gone off to college, you can always come back to visit me. If you drive by my house when you're home for Christmas, I hope you'll stop and see me. As long as the candles are in the window, I'll be here."
I never did go back after I graduated. I remember driving by her house once or twice, to see if the candles were still in the windows. They were, but even then I wasn't one to drop in unannounced. Oh, I believed her when she said we could. But somehow I didn't think I could. My day had passed. The candles still whispered magic to me, but the magic of her home already seemed a lifetime ago, and I knew I couldn't recapture it. I was already, I thought, a different person.
Sometime later, I heard that Mrs. Patterson had died. Cancer, I think. I cried a little, thinking of her sweetness. Her light. Her gift of hospitality. Her sincerity. I never drove past her house again because although I hadn't taken her up on her invitation, I couldn't stand the thought of those bare, dark windows.
And now, in these days of Advent, as we are waiting for His coming -- waiting to celebrate His birth, and as we contemplate His final Coming -- I think of the candles that still call to me. The flames I really do return to, again and again.
In the confessional.
In Holy Mass.
Flickering next to the tabernacle.
As long as the candles are lit, He will be there. Waiting.
For Mrs. Patterson. For you. For me. And this time around, when I feel like a different person, I know that it's true
The magic of Jesus beckons, and I will never be the same.
7 comments:
Beautiful!!
This is lovely - start saving up something like this for your devotional book, Missus.
Andrea and Tanita, thank you both.
I'm smiling broadly as I type because there's a lovely bit of symmetry in the fact that you are the two commenters on this post. Andrea was the first person to encourage (would you call it nag, Andrea?) me to write a book (my Rosary book was dedicated to her), and now, Tanita, you are carrying on with encouragement.
Thanks and hugs to both of you! :)
I stumbled across your post about ask a mom a question while I was looking for somthing on the web. . . I feel like I am the mom in that article right now, because one post led to another and now I am here. Love this post. Beautifully written. I don't remember anymore what I was originally looking for, but now I find - it doesn't matter.
Woops - hit that send too quickly. I also wanted to say. . I really enjoyed my visit and looking forward to visiting again.
Laurie, one thing led to another for me, too, and the reply I thought I'd posted here never showed up! Thank you for such kind words!
Btw, that usually happens when I type the comment, hit Publish, then get distracted, and later realize (or never realize) that I clicked out of the tab before some accursed comment approval step was completed.
(WHY did Blogger add an approval step without my approval? I can't seem to get rid of the "I'm Not a Robot" step....)
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