Front Porch Conversations: Flicker of flame conveys hope in dark hour

By STEPHANIE PORTER-NICHOLS/Staff

A single white candle sits in my office. It’s unimpressive in physical size – only a little more than four inches tall and finger-width wide. Tiny balls of wax hardened where they spilled over the top and a blackened wick tell that the candle has been burned. The flimsy cardboard finger protector still rests about midway down the molded wax tube giving a bit of testimony about its use.
The candle was lit once—on Sept. 12, 2001.
As our newspapers worked to share the stories of how the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks impacted our communities, I attended a church’s candlelight prayer service as part of our coverage.
The sun was setting as the service began. The evening rays penetrated the old country church’s stained-glass windows, making their colors blaze and creating a warm glow on the dark pews.
A couple dozen people filed into those wooden benches. I sat toward the back not wanting to intrude on this congregation’s time of collective comfort and petitioning God. None of us were outsiders that day, though, and the church members sought me out to join hands with them in prayer. As the sun dropped beyond the horizon, each person turned to the next to share the flame until the tiny candles lit the sanctuary.
I don’t remember the individual prayers or the minister’s words. Images and sensations consume my memories of the experience. I remember the heartfelt nature of the appeals made to God and the tight clasp of people’s hands united in prayer and reaching out to one another forging spiritual and human connections. The plays of light tell so much of the story, first the brilliance of the sun beams and then the little flickers of flame symbolizing so much hope and resolve in that dark hour.
As people reluctantly left the peace of the sanctuary and the strength of one another’s company, many held onto their candles. I took mine back to my office. Since that day seven years ago, the tiny, fragile symbol has remained a fixture in my workplace. When I moved locations, the candle was packed carefully for the journey. While other items remained boxed up for months, it found a place of prominence quickly.
I don’t need the candle to remind me of the horrors of 9/11. Any one of us alive that day doesn’t need cues to bring back the terror and accompanying anguish.
Sometimes, however, I need the candle to remind me of outstretched hands, compassionate tears, courageous voices and love-filled spirits. 
For now, the candle sits in my office, serving its purpose as an unchanging symbol. One day, though, its wick may burn again for it now seems contradictory to the prayers of September 2001 to keep the potential for any light darkened.

Stephanie Porter-Nichols is the editor of the Smyth County News & Messenger.