The Wicked Wicks of Advent

 “Moooommmm…he blew out my candle!” Eyes glowered across the table as the offending sibling selected a weak reply, “I didn’t mean to” or the echo of Eden, “It wasn’t my fault!”

Striking another match, I relit the wick so the candle’s keeper could extinguish it with a puff…or two…or three…or as many as I could stand before threatening to let a sibling’s breath finish the flickering flame.

Forget “visions of sugarplums dancing.” I wasn’t hoping for anything that fanciful. Just fifteen minutes at days end when serenity would reign. When all five sons would gather, eyes shining with anticipation and ears eager to hear anew the greatest story ever told.

Why did Advent have to engender so many arguments?

I had, after all, already modified my aspirations. Sure, cherubic faces would be awesome, but clean ones were acceptable. I’d ignore dirt between toes the night’s bathwater had mysteriously missed in exchange for hair which had encountered shampoo – however briefly. Adorable matching flannel pajama sets had been relinquished for “just come clothed in more than underwear.” How many desires could be waived without waving the white flag and cancelling Advent devotions entirely?

Every evening a luxurious hardback book with fancy gold lettering on the front cover was retrieved from its special spot. Inside the gold-leafed edges were twenty-five lavishly detailed pages, secured, when closed, by a beautiful satin cherry-red ribbon. These weren’t typical pages. No 20# paper here. This was heavy-duty cardstock; its weight presuming a dignified handling. Each page showcased an ornate door which, when opened, revealed a passage inked in gorgeous calligraphy with accompanying swirls and flourishes relating the Nativity account.

During daytime hours the “formal” dining room table hosted history discussions, science experiments, arts and craft projects, needs-sorting mail, and needs-sorting-and-folding laundry. It recorded tears over a laborious math lesson, stress over a depleted checking account, and protests over an “unfair” parental decision. Couldn’t this wooden witness to everyday life testify for just a few moments for just a few days of the year to “peace on earth, goodwill to men?”

In the center of the table stood a customized Advent centerpiece. Instead of the traditional ring with four candles, ours was a sculpted oblong design, low on each end, rising to a center peak. An assortment of white, pink, and gold silk poinsettias adorned the display. Artificial glossy green leaves added contrast. At the center stood the tallest candle, paired on either side with two tapers at stair-stepped heights.

I had calculated, when creating the centerpiece, it would be ill-advised to have only four candles with five offspring in attendance. I didn’t want to add a math “story problem” to this holy ritual. (“If five kids observe Advent for 25 days with four candles, how many times will each one light and extinguish a candle?”) We had enough problems with arithmetic angst during daylight; no need to carry over into starry nights.

Five sons. Five candles. Everyone had one to light and extinguish. How hard could it be?

As it turned out, astonishingly.

Five tiny wax torches ignited nightly arguments.

Before the reading began, someone invariably “forgot” and lit more candles than their own. The "contrite" offender then offered to blow out the candles they'd inadvertently set aglow. This offer was always rejected by the offended parties who preferred to extinguish and relight their candles themselves. Typically this was accompanied with dramatic gestures and steely eyes shooting non-verbal messages to the offender. The kind that melt the heart – and not from kindness.

Finally, when all five tapers were justly lit, and it was time for the night’s reading to begin, everyone’s attention could turn to the glorious story so elegantly presented in the gold-spined album. Notice I say “could.”

The wicks, it turns out, were wicked.

Their dancing flames captivated the boys’ attention. The lads seemed intent on assessing just how hard they could exhale to make the flames quiver without quenching them. This cued accusations, muttered or trumpeted, that “He’s (insert name here) blowing on my candle!”

In addition to these incendiary incidents, there was the usual assortment of making faces, picking noses, and crossing with one’s elbow, foot, head, or finger the invisible lines drawn by a sibling establishing his personal space boundaries. Keep in mind everyone was long out of diapers.

Miraculously, however, when the reading and prayers were over, everyone’s attentiveness and coordination returned. The sloucher became straight as a 2x4. The yawner alert as an ambulance driver. The squirmer as still as a marble statute. The off-the-chair-slider as poised as an etiquette instructor. The personal-space-invader as contained as an astronaut strapped in for launch.

It was time to put out the flames. Inevitably, someone “accidentally” got carried away and puffed out the one…or two…or three next to their flare. The unjustly doused blazes necessitated relighting so the rightful custodian could perform the procedure. The ratio of matches to candles proved something was quite amiss.

Advent didn’t feel as much like a sacred observance as a stressful ordeal. I needed more prayer afterwards than before.

And yet. Even though it seemed the only thing that mattered were the candle lighting and extinguishing rights, hearts were hearing about the Light of the World. Every gilded page turned, every opulent door opened, every elegant script read -- sparked anew the glorious message, “For unto you a Savior is born.”

So much of parenting feels like “Why am I doing this?” “Is it making any difference?” “Why bother?” And the answer is: 

Impact isn’t measured by immediacy.

Most seeds sown into the lives of our children aren’t like radishes; they’re like apples. Push a radish seed into soft loam, and you can harvest a salad ingredient in under 30 days. Plant an apple seed and you’ll invest seven (or more) years tending to that seedling, sapling, and tree before plucking the first fruit. There are “radish” moments – revel in them when they come. But realize most of what you’ll sow, weed, water, and nurture will be measured in “apple” years.

I recently inquired of my now-grown kiddos what they remember about Advent. I’d love to tell you their eyes became misty as they recalled precious memories of reading the Nativity story. Alas, I cannot. “Candles” was a top response. Followed by statements such as “I remember someone always blowing out my candle.” “Chaotic” was another adjective, referring to the process of trying to corral everyone. "Bored" was mentioned. One did offer a balanced approach, remarking, “Other than the emotional trauma, you knew something serious and important was going on.”

And yet. They remember.

Along with the candles and chaos and conflict, the Advent apple seed of faith was being nurtured.

In spite of the accusations, arguments, and mini acts of arson, belief in Christ was being cultivated.

They each now have the flame of the greatest story ever told burning brightly in their hearts, and that’s worth all the wicked wicks in the world.