This little light of mine

To escape the 40-degree heat in southern France, Hubby and I took refuge in a medieval chateau that boasted a refreshing 32 degrees. It was nice enough in a National Trust kind of way, and the Gothic-style chapel hosted the usual multiple shrines of multiple saints venerated with multiple flickering candles in a Roman Catholic kind of way.

Being the pseudo-Protestant girl that I am, and not to be outdone or intimidated by the Papists, I popped a two-euro coin into the box and lit a tall anorexic candle in memory of Mum and Dad, at the shrine of St George of course. No idea what he was doing in France, other than to undermine Europe, which is why he’s our patron saint, of course. Anyhoo, I placed my candle on the highest row between some older ones and, wherever I wandered in the chapel, Mum and Dad’s candle stood tallest and proudest of the lot. Yes I know that pride is one of the seven deadly sins, but I’m guilty of far worse, so let it go.

I don’t light a candle for them in every church or chapel that I visit, only when I think it particularly apt, like on a special day, or when I feel the need. On this occasion, a celestial a cappella choir (and not the mistaken belief there might be air conditioning) drew us in from the blistering courtyard. It was only a recording, but the Gothic ceilings smooched with the harmonies and wafted them all around in waves of sublimity. Dad would have been transfixed, barely tearing himself away to sneak onto the organ bench and participate in his own sweet way. I was reminded of Mum and Dad’s final (as it turned out) foreign holiday, in Oslo, when the heavens opened and hoards took refuge in a pretty church. Dad went straight for the organ and began to play, to experiment, create, invent, enchant, enthral. Master of all that he surveyed. Afterwards, he said he had no idea what he’d been playing and couldn’t replicate it ever again. Something had inspired him at that moment, and he had spellbound everyone else. Mum said she’d never known an audience so quiet.

I think it was this memory that prompted me to light a French candle, which was still burning brightly as we left the chapel, heading back into the bowels of hell-fire heat, except I was quite enjoying it. It was a good excuse to wear floaty dresses, be affectatious with a fan, eat chocolate ice cream and, to wine-buffs’ horror, drink rosé with ice cubes.

I’d like to think that I light more candles than the mere physical ones, that overall I bring more light to the world than darkness. I know I make some people laugh, but some angry. However, I can’t remember ever making anyone cry, so Score! Mum always said she tried everyday to be a good Christian, everyday she failed, everyday she’d try again. This made her a better person than most. Dad’s main failing as a Christian was that he found it difficult to forgive. In my opinion, this transgression is tempered by his never having to be forgiven for anything else. I expect that, had he been a Roman Catholic and attended confession, the priest would be very envious.

When the vicar came to the bungalow to give Dad the last rites, he stayed for a cuppa and a chat. Obviously it was a solemn occasion but, when he heard that we used to live in Yorkshire, he made us laugh by saying something very unchristian about Arthur Scargill. He’d brought a little bit of light into our family at a dark time without upsetting anyone else, so Score!

And here I am now, bringing light to Mum and Dad, receiving some from them in return. A Protestant finding solace in a Roman Catholic chapel. The Patron Saint of England revered in France.

So, hat trick!