Matches and Candles

If you have other things in your life—family, friends, good productive day work—these can interact with your writing and the sum will be all the richer. (David Brin)

            The wind roared every time it hit the old building of the dormitory I lived in back then. The wardrobe doors kept opening since the windows and the front door were unable to be sealed perfectly. I was alone, as I am every Saturday night – both roommates gone. I bought some candles that day, so I decided to lit them and enjoy the time I had for myself, without rapport talk (which I did enjoy, from time to time, however the girls usually wanted to talk during my prayers, so I tried to do it anytime they weren´t here). I found a box of matches, took one and stroke it.  

I was always amazed byfire. At summer camps or barbecues, I was the one who just sat by the fire and kept staring in it. The flames dancing and trembling in the light summer wind, the feeling of the heat on my skin, the light I couldn´t resist looking into, it all consumed me inside out. I wasn´t the crazy girl who set things on fire everywhere she went, no. I just enjoyed the presence of fire. There was something peaceful and calming on the flames. At my younger age, I wondered how unfair it was they´d have fire in hell. Later on, my opinion changed, and I realized I hadn´t been aware of the fact those in hell would probably stand in it, not watch it as I do. I also never wanted our house of school to be burnt to dust. As I said, I am no crazy. As long as enjoying fire isn´t crazy. I looked down on my hand with the burning match in it. 

Matches. Such an insignificant thing in terms of helpful gadgets and devices of the twenty-first century and in terms of keeping the fire as well. We could simply use another one, and then another one. But the fire it created was always unique, no two flames were lit up in the same circumstances. We use matches for lighting a candle when a baby is baptized. We use those on birthdays, dates and weddings as a symbol of celebration. However, we use the same matches and candles for remembering a person who left us, we cry and pray with candles, we try to burn things with matches we want to forget. Insignificant things. Still essentially present in every important moment of our lives. As if the fire of the match was similar to the fire of a man. Stroke, created in a moment of heated emotions, in the moment of unifying desires being satisfied and burnt in the most beautiful way. New life ignited with the union of two other lives, with their own sparks they create a fire, enjoyable for the later and life-giving for the former. Life created in a stroke, just as when God said: “Let it be.” And there it was, fruitful, green, warm and cold, wet and dry, with oceans and hills and animals and flowers, with forests and desserts and… people. His words are strokings of matches called creation. And what they created is diverse, colourful and is indeed a fire.

            So here I was, standing in my dorm room, stroking a match, watching the sparkles and the way it lit the candle. I didn´t blow the match out, I held it in my hand, watching her short-term light ending naturally as it reached the end of the small wooden stick. It died, in a way, but it left a treasure here – it left my candle lit and my soul calm. It lived its life for such a short time it was almost meaningless for eternity. But it wasn´t meaningless for me. It brought light and warmth and hope into my life. A used match may never be reignited, but it´s not the match that matters, it´s what it had done. A person´s life seems to be meaningless considering eternal perspective. But every movement of our bodies, every word leaving our mouths, every glance and whisper and deed and especially everything inside their hearts effects it greatly because people aren´t matches without reigniting. Their souls will be eternal, enjoying or suffering for the fire they created on Earth. For those who didn´t lit a candle there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, but for those whose source, whose box or surface stroke against, was true Light, no weeping only joy awaits.

            I smiled at the sight of the lit candle. I put it on my bedside, laid down and prayed. I don´t really know what I prayed about, but I remember the small flame of the candle trembling in the air blast the windows let in. It wasn´t really a strong storm outside, but it was probably strong enough to snuff it out. Eventually, it did. But it´s already done what I needed – calmed me down and helped me fix my eyes and thoughts on eternal things. Even in darkness, I still saw a light. Even in my own lifelong storms I wasn´t snuffed out. The reason is that darkness and death are not knowing, but trusting and knowing are life. I wasn´t amazed by the fire anymore, I was amazed by its Creator. He, who created it, was Light itself, before times started and will be forever. I felt thankful for the people God used as matches in my life and knew I wasn´t only a lit candle, but a useful match in others´ lives, and I wanted to be used. I thought of my friends, and my teachers, and my parents and my enemies. I hoped their candle wouldn´t be easily snuffed out in any circumstances.

            I opened my eyes to see the empty room, enlightened only by the Christmas lights we still didn´t put down since January. I saw loads of books and materials I studied that day for school. I thought of the next day´s church and wondered if Peter´s brother was going to make it on time – it would be the first time if he had. I felt tired, so I didn´t call back my Mom even if I had two missed calls from her. I hoped she prayed that night too, and that we´ll meet in a few days. We didn´t.
That was the night she passed away. The thirtieth of March 2015. I knew who the next candle would be lit for.