The Candle-Holding Angel
In a small village nestled between the mountains, there stood an old chapel made of mud- bricks
and marble stones. It was not grand, but it was loved. Ivy crept along its walls, and its bell—
though rusted—still rang when the wind passed just right.
Inside, at the far end of the chapel, stood a statue: an angel carved of pale marble, delicate and
serene. Her wings were tucked gently behind her, and in her hands she held a single candle—tall,
slender, and unlit.
No one in the village remembered who carved the angel or why she held the candle. But stories
passed down through generations told of her purpose.
“She lights the way for the lost,” the elders would say. “Not just in this world, but beyond it.”
Each year, on the longest night of winter, the villagers would gather in silence. One by one, they
lit candles from the hearth and placed them at the angel’s feet. Then the final candle—the one in
her hands—was lit by the oldest member of the village.
The moment that flame touched the wick, something strange would happen.
The air would warm. The silence would grow deeper, more sacred. And for a fleeting moment,
the marble seemed to soften, her stone eyes flickering like she was remembering something or
someone.
One winter, a terrible snowstorm struck. Roads vanished beneath white, and the power failed. A
child, lost in the woods while searching for firewood, wandered for hours. The cold gnawed at
her, her little lantern dimming with every step.
Then, through the curtain of snow, she saw it—a soft golden light, steady and low. She followed
it, stumbling over roots and drifted snow. The light led her to the edge of the village, right to the
door of the chapel.
Inside, the candle in the angel’s hands was burning, though no one had lit it that year. The
villagers found her the next morning curled beneath the angel’s feet, sleeping, warm, alive.
No one questioned the miracle. No one ever tried to explain it.
From that night on, the angel’s candle was kept lit year-round. Some said the angel had
awakened that night—not in body, but in purpose. That she no longer waited to be called upon
only once a year.
Now, she watches always, her flame a quiet promise:
“You are never lost. I will guide you home.”
Fabina Vincent, the mother of Eza Lizbeth Hemand, who is currently studying in KG I O.
