The Purple Candle

It sits in the living room on my grandmother's old sewing machine. It doesn't coordinate with anything else in the room. In fact, it doesn't match any item in the entire house.

It's a reminder.

That sometimes love isn't about matching. Or fitting in. Or color-coordinating.

Sometimes it is about spontaneity. And "This made me think of you."

And

"I love you even when you are an insensitive idiot."

I don't seem to be very good at interpreting my husband's signals.

Sigh.

It all began when we attended a fundraising event with a silent auction. We both put bids on several things, but I left before the event was over.

When my husband returned home, he came to find me.

"Look what I got," he said, holding a hurricane lamp dancing with butterflies, housing a purple candle.

"Who's that for?" I asked. The words were out before I can stop them, because if I had thought about it, who else would it be for?  It's not like my husband would buy gifts for another woman.

He smiled. Proud. A grown man I've been married to for twenty-nine years. Yet a boy tender sits behind his eyes.

"I'm not a fan," I remarked, returning to the magazine I was reading.

He grew quiet. Set the lamp on the kitchen table. And left the room.

I sat alone in the now empty kitchen. I looked at the candle. My husband does not like the color purple.

But I do.

I had a sobering realization.

When I left the event early, I took the car. My husband carried my gift when he walked the two miles home.

Was it possible to feel any smaller? Any less like a worm?

I wished that spoken words had form. Substance. So I could grab them and put them back in my mouth. Chew them to oblivion and swallow them down.

The book of James talks about a tongue being like a fire, a small flame that can cause a great forest fire of destruction.

I know. My tongue did some burning that day.

So the hurricane lamp dancing with butterflies sits on my grandmother's old sewing machine.  A purple candle rises from the center. A reminder. That mouth flames should not burn. But bring warmth. Light. Healing.

Quietly the candle speaks.

With a beauty all its own.