Dear Readers,
There was a little house with a small garden out front, and in that garden stood a simple cross. It wasn’t grand or towering, just a quiet reminder of faith that had always lived within the family who called that house home.
Every evening, when the world slowed down and the sun dipped low, three shadows would step out onto the front steps: father, mother, and son. They didn’t need much, just each other, the cool air, and the flicker of candles that glowed softly in the night.
The mother would fold her hands gently, her voice calm and steady as she whispered prayers for strength, for health, for tomorrow. The father, sometimes tired from the day, would sit in silence, letting his presence be its own prayer. And the son, still young, would watch the flames dance and believe, with all his heart, that God was listening.
In those moments, nothing else mattered. The world outside might be uncertain, but on those steps, before that cross, there was peace.
Years passed, as they always do. The boy grew, and the candles were lit through seasons of laughter and sorrow. And one day, when the mother’s chair on the steps was empty, the son felt a breaking inside him. But then he saw his father, still there, still sitting beside him, still lighting those candles. “We’ll keep praying,” his father said softly, “because God hasn’t left us. And your mother is still here, in every flame.”
And so they prayed.
Now, the house feels quieter. Both chairs are empty. Yet the son still remembers; he remembers how his mother’s hands cupped the flame to shield it from the wind, how his father’s eyes glistened when he thought no one was noticing. And he remembers that even when he feels alone, those candles still burn within him.
Because love, once lit, never goes out.
JacobM