While the candle flickers

It's time for me to go upstairs to bed. The lights are turned off, a candle burns, the clock in the kitchen ticks through the silence.  And I sit here at the dining table, look at the fan blades turning above, and I feel the solitude and the quiet seep into me, feel them like soothing words.  It's been different lately, this life of mine.  There are changes and peaks and valleys and it seems that so much is happening so fast. Life and death, healing and swelling.  I was at my best this weekend, and also was at my worst.  In such a short span of time, the two extremes.  How is that?  My tongue was sharp and burning this weekend, harsh words, ill-timed and poorly spoken.  And yet the same mouth spoke kindly and gently to a broken woman only hours later.  My heart was heavy this weekend, and yet flowers and a card delivered by hand gave me light and hope, and most importantly, love.  I laughed this weekend. And I cried, oh Lord how I cried.  I cried for others and I cried for myself.  I cried for pain and loss and fear, and I shouted out and lashed out for the very same.  And tonight, I take this person, this me, and I take her gently upstairs to rest beneath a God I know is there and prayers I know are heard.  And I ask of myself to slow down, and I ask of life to slow down, just slow down enough for me to adjust, enough for all of us to catch our breath.  And I pray for the weary to have rest, the broken to have healing, the hungry to be nourished, and the fearful to be soothed.  I pray for what we all need, for all of us to have and to give.  Love.