The Light We Borrow
A story of grace, community, and the courage to be seen
Last Sunday, I went to church feeling pretty hopeless.
Not loud or dramatic hopelessness, just the quiet, heavy kind that settles into your bones.
I’d been feeling worn down, sad, a bit lost under the weight of it all.
Honestly, I didn’t even want to go.
But I went anyway, because sometimes, showing up is all you can do.
When I arrived, I wandered into the kitchen area, where a friend was making coffee and setting out biscuits. She looked up, smiled, and asked the question we all ask: “How are you?”
Usually, I’d smile back and say, “I’m fine.”
But something in me cracked open.
I said, “Actually… really shit.”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t try to fix it.
She just reached out, took my hand, and pulled me into a hug.
She spoke a few quiet words, words of warmth and kindness.
The kind of words that don’t try to change anything, but hold you steady for a moment.
And it felt to me as if she wasn’t just sharing her light.
She was re-lighting mine.
It was as though her candle was already burning, and when she came close, her flame touched the wick of mine that had gone out.
That small, glowing connection, that warmth, that presence, was enough to set my light flickering again.
Later that day, I remembered a line by Albert Schweitzer:
“At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person.
Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”
That’s exactly what happened.
My own light had gone out, and my friend’s simple act, her closeness, her kindness, her willingness to stand with me in the dimness — rekindled something I couldn’t reach on my own.
It made me realise how deeply we need one another.
Hope isn’t always something we find within ourselves.
Sometimes, it’s something we borrow.
Shared. Passed hand to hand like candlelight in a darkened room.
It also reminded me of something Brené Brown says:
“Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity.”
If I’d hidden behind “I’m fine,” there would have been no connection, no spark.
It took vulnerability to admit, “Actually, I’m not okay.”
And it took courage for her to meet that honesty, not with advice, but with warmth.
We talk a lot about sharing our light.
But we rarely talk about allowing ourselves to be lit.
That takes trust.
It means letting someone come close enough to see the unlit places.
It means being known in our darkness as well as our light.
This also brought to mind Chris Coursey’s work at Thrive Today.
He says that joy isn’t something we create on our own.
Joy is what we feel when someone is glad to be with us.
“Joy is what you feel when someone is glad to be with you.” — Chris Coursey
That’s what I felt in that kitchen.
My friend’s face, her presence, her gentle humour, all of it said, “I’m glad to be with you, even when you’re not okay.”
That kind of joy doesn’t cancel sadness.
It simply sits beside it.
It’s the warmth that reminds us we’re not alone in the dark.
Even neuroscience agrees that joy is relational.
Our light gets stronger through connection.
When we lose it, we often need someone else’s calm, kind presence to help re-light it.
Since Sunday, I’ve been thinking about how light spreads.
One candle doesn’t lose anything by lighting another.
If anything, the brightness increases.
There’s something profoundly hopeful about that.
Shared vulnerability, shared joy, shared faith, these things create a kind of communal light.
The church is not yet a place of perfection.
But it is a place where flames are kindled.
Each of us, at different times, carrying the light for someone else.
The poet Tagore once wrote:
“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”
Sometimes, when our own faith falters, it’s the borrowed light, a friend’s steady flame, that reminds us the morning will come.
That moment in the church kitchen keeps replaying in my mind.
It was simple. Ordinary, even.
And yet it was sacred.
A flicker of grace in the middle of a grey Sunday.
I think about Schweitzer’s words again:
“Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”
Gratitude is what lingers.
For her kindness.
For that brief, beautiful exchange of warmth.
For the reminder that we are not meant to carry our light alone.
Maybe that’s what hope really is — not a feeling we keep burning by willpower, but a light we borrow, hold for a while, and then pass on again.
I hope this week we notice the small sparks that keep us alight,
and be ready, when the time comes, to pass the flame.
Amen. Thank you Andrea for always sharing your light with the world. Your musings are always refreshing🙏🏽