A dear friend brought me a gift. In a bag with chocolates were two candles, one white as snow, and another of amber. She had melted beeswax and poured it into a mold of a husband and wife. His arms are wrapped around her in a fluid circle, and his mouth is close enough to whisper in her ear. She is facing the world but he has her back. 

 

I wonder what will happen when it burns. The wick flows from deep inside them, and will render them hot enough to disappear. I don't actually understand this. Does wax become part of the air around me? 

 

I can easily imagine that my friend made a collection of candles in a single industrious day. Last year she gave me a lamb and a tree. What is marvelous is that the beeswax is malleable enough to flow into any shape at all. The same substance conforms to a myriad of recognizable figures. A chandler can even alter the color with dyes.

 

God's love is like this. Or rather, the reverse. His influence pours into humans, and pinecones alike. The reception He gets differs dramatically, with some electing to use their energy for destructive purposes, while others are passionate about altruism. 

 

The illusion that we are vastly different leans into that receptivity, rather than the universality of what we are made of. 

 

"I am made of beeswax," he whispers.

 

"So am I!" she admits to herself as much as him. 

 

The plumb line that pierces all of us at our core burns away the aspects that are of this world, and yet in the process brings light to others.