Candlelight on the Cobblestones
The rain had been falling since afternoon, steady and cold, the kind that feels like penance. The cobblestones were slick and shining beneath the lamps, and my breath came out in little clouds as I crossed the square. The street was nearly empty, save for a stray cat darting into an alley and a man pulling his collar tight against the wind.
The buildings leaned together like old friends sharing secrets. Their windows glowed faintly, each one a reminder that warmth still existed somewhere in the world. When I reached the bar, I hesitated—half to admire its wooden sign swaying gently in the drizzle, half because something sacred always lingers before the warmth of communion.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oak and ale, beeswax candles burning low on every table. There were no televisions, no music—just the murmur of voices and the sound of rain tapping on the old leaded windows. My friends were in the back, gathered around a small table worn smooth by years of elbows, laughter, and silence.
“Mac!” one of them called, raising a glass. “We thought the storm swallowed you.”
“Maybe it did,” I said, hanging my coat. “But even Jonah got out eventually.”
That earned a few laughs, the kind that come not from humor but from shared exhaustion. I sat down, the candlelight dancing across their faces—Dan, with his philosopher’s eyes; Trevor, ever restless, tapping his thumb against the rim of his glass; and Sut, whose silence often spoke more wisdom than our words combined.
For a while, we talked about nothing in particular—the weather, the dampness in the wood, the way time feels slower in places like this. But soon the conversation turned, as it always did.
Trevor leaned back and said, “You ever think about how fragile it all is? How one bad week could strip us of everything? The house, the job, the girl—poof.”
Dan smiled faintly. “The fear of losing everything,” he said, “is only healed by realizing everything is being given.”
I looked at him. “You quoting Scripture or yourself?”
He shrugged. “Both, maybe.”
Sut spoke quietly. “Rilke said something like that once,” he murmured. “‘For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are still just able to bear.’”
Trevor frowned. “Terror?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The terror of love. The kind that asks for everything and promises nothing but itself. That’s the Cross, isn’t it?”
Dan nodded slowly. “Christ didn’t die just to save us from pain,” he said, “but to show us what to do with it. To reveal that even suffering—especially suffering—is a blessing if it brings us closer to love.”
There was a pause. The candle wavered in a draft, then steadied. The light touched the rim of each glass, turning the beer to amber gold. Outside, the rain softened.
Trevor exhaled. “You really think it’s all for something?”
“I do,” I said. “Because everything I’ve ever lost has only made room for something better. It’s like God keeps taking until there’s nothing left but Himself. And then—finally—you realize He was what you wanted all along.”
Sut smiled, eyes glinting like the candle flame. “To lose everything,” he said, “is to gain the ability to love everything.”
We sat in silence after that, no one daring to break it. The warmth from the candles mingled with the smell of wet wool and smoke. Someone refilled the glasses.
It wasn’t joy exactly, but something deeper—a quiet gladness that hummed beneath the sorrow, like the sound of rain on glass. For a moment, we weren’t just friends. We were fragments of something whole.
When I stepped back into the street, the rain had stopped. The cobblestones glistened beneath the lamplight, and puddles reflected the golden windows of the bar. I could still hear their laughter behind the door, low and steady, like the heartbeat of the world.
And I thought of Paul’s words: All things are yours… and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.
I walked home in silence, the night air sharp and alive. Heaven, it seemed, was not a place far away, but here—on this street, in this rain, among these friends who still dared to speak of God by candlelight.