It was a simple thing.
Just a tiny flame of a candle. But its significance was immense. I hadn’t been
home in over a year. I said some things I regret, and then Mom screamed and
kicked me out. I’d been on my own these past fifteen months, traveling the country.
I lived off my college savings fund. Decided it would go to better educational
use to get out and actually see the world than read about it in a textbook.
When the fund ran out, I earned cash by singing on the streets, playing my
guitar. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
At one point, some
months after I left, Mom reached out to me. Sent me an email I never bothered
to open. She had no idea where I was and had no place in my life anymore, and I
wanted to keep it that way. But one cold night, during a mighty storm, I had no
money for a place to stay. In that moment, I missed home. More than ever. I
missed the security and love there. Without hesitating, I finally opened that
email. I will never forget the words I read that night. “Charlie,
please come home. We burn a candle every night for you, praying its light will
guide you home to us.” I hadn’t dared open that email before, afraid
I wouldn’t be able to face her words. Afraid I had gone too far, said too much,
and no longer belonged there. So I had traveled as far away as I could get. But
she reached me, and beckoned me home. Some time later, as I stood in front of
my home, I saw the candlelight flickering in the window, a promise of hope and
new beginnings.
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