The Candle Maker

by James Ryan Orr

Overview

The Candle Maker offers a refreshing glimpse into the journey of faith throughout the entirety of a lifetime. The story of Phillip and his quest to understand how and why there is a candle within his chest is compelling and reads like a parable guiding toward a profound truth. Phillip’s remarkable experience, the wide swing of all human emotion, travels the high, joyous peaks as well as the low, desolate valleys of life.

The Candle Maker follows Phillip through all the stages of his existence, from the warmth of a nurturing home, to the embrace of a true love, through the snares of those who would tempt to extinguish his inner flame, through great loss and absolute heartache, back again to a life rebuilt and life returned, and ultimately face to face with the Candle Maker, the creator of all light. Don’t let the brevity of The Candle Maker mislead you, within this small volume is a story that sings a grand truth that must be experienced by anyone walking the path of light.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781630479695
Publisher:	Morgan James Publishing
Publication date:	01/10/2017
Series:	Morgan James Fiction Series
Pages:	134
Product dimensions:	5.00(w) x 7.80(h) x 0.50(d)

About the Author

James Ryan Orr, a Husband, father, teacher, songwriter, and author, had his spark for writing ignited in a creative writing class in college. He has traveled across the state of North Carolina sharing his testimony, insight, and music with others at drug and alcohol treatment facilities, churches, community events, and also through radio interviews.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

A Little Light Inside a Little Boy

Grass stains, muddy boots, and scraped knees accompanied Phillip's journey, along with the sprinkled moments that reopened, for his mother, the puzzle of light and the effect that it held over him.

"Mom?" Walking up and looking up to her, Phillip repeated, "Mom? Can I tell you something?"

Tabitha looked down, closing the book she was reading, smiling at her little shaggy-haired love. "Of course you can, dear. My ears are wide open and completely at your service." She tried her best to wiggle them but couldn't, so instead she exaggerated her eyes up and down.

"Something serious," he said, through a slightly squinted face. "No joking."

"Yes, sweetie," she responded, while intently looking at his knees for scrapes and his boots for mud, half expecting the remnants of some minor, boyish mischief to be about him. "I am listening, no joking around."

"Mom ... this may sound a bit weird ... never mind, it's really nothing ... it's silly." He turned to walk away, but his mother reached and gently turned him back around so his face could be seen.

"Phillip," she addressed him, leaning down so that her eyes could meet his, "if it means something to you, something enough to share, then it means something to me, something enough to listen."

He thought about her eyes now, looking up and into them searchingly, how they seemed to smile at times. With an inward breath, then with a sigh, he let the words out: "Mom," scanning her face, anticipating reaction from what he was about to say, "there is a candle — a real candle — inside of me."

"Well," discretely taking stock of the candles positioned around the kitchen and main room with half a hunch to find one with a bite or two missing, she asked, "does this candle of yours have a particular flavor?"

Phillip's face folded completely at this. "Mom, I didn't eat it ... you don't eat candles ... I knew this was a bad idea to talk about."

"Okay," Tabitha prodded, now game to this interaction, attentive, "where is this candle of yours. ... in your feet ... in your hair ..." and, with emphasis on this last part, "in your belly?"

His head wobbled, air expelled nasally in an innocent frustration. "Mom, I didn't eat any candles ... I knew I should have said nothing ... I never should of. ..." He turned to walk away again but was gently corralled once more.

"Okay, all ears now, no joking around, no talk about eating candles, okay?" his mother soothed, wholly attentive now, just naturally flowing within a state that overcomes parents trying their best in moments such as these, a deeply buried, sacred tone they are able to find within them to express to their children a type of sincere empathy, hushing the outside world with a true face and set of eyes, appearing fully, listening completely, within the moment. Tabitha, now delicate but stone strong, continued, "I am sorry Phillip, it's just that I don't really see what you're talking about ... I would like to, though. Can you help me understand just exactly what you are trying to say?"

Phillip, under the spell of the sacred tone, let all of his thoughts out: "Mom, I didn't eat any candles, I promise. For so long now I have felt it ... I have to tell someone, not just any someone, somebody close ... you, I have to tell you. There is a candle, a burning candle inside of me." His hands now moved up to his chest, right where the heart resides.

Phillip felt the weight of secrecy lifted, his mother accepting the burden of her son's cryptic message, her emotions hanging substantially on the word "burning," the whole conversation growing out of an innocent talk into something troubling, yet not alarming, as if her mind had to make a judgment call with no clear stance for either side. Her mind flashed back to the multitude of moments that dotted the path past to present, all the times that Phillip spoke about and seemingly was drawn to light, and now she felt as if she had fallen asleep on her watch over Phillip.

"How long, Phillip," she gently spoke, "how long has it been hurting?"

"Burning, mom, not hurting. It doesn't hurt at all." Nothing on his face suggested that Tabitha read otherwise. "Just a little light inside a little boy."

Working within the judgment call of what was going on with her precious and sweet boy, slightly eased by his response, she delved deeper: "A little light inside a little boy, huh?"

"Yes, mom, just like that."

"No hurting, no pain, Phillip?"

"No pain, mom, just light, warm light, I feel it in there." His little hands again touched his chest.

The spell of the sacred tone lifted as if it had drifted down to chaperone the dance of great truths shared between parent and child, powerful truths that had come up from deep portions to dance on the surface of words, exchange bow and curtsey, and drift away back to the faint edges of mind behind mind, where emotions grow.

Unable to help herself, after a series of pushes, pokes, a great deal of soft prodding near his abdomen and sternum, and, she couldn't resist, a wrist to his forehead, she stood perplexed, firm on the notion of calling for Dr. Jenkins the very next day.

"You're sure that you are fine ... no pain?"

His face lifted up from the seriousness and broke into the charming grin that young people naturally carry about them. "Yes, mom, I am fine, nothing wrong at all ... I just had to tell you."

He turned, bounced off down the hall, relieved to have shared his secret, and more so to have shared to such a listener, knowing his words found their way into her concern and understanding. She watched down the hall as he skipped, her sweet and precious little boy.

CHAPTER 2

Drawing Dr. Jenkins

He's perfectly fine, there is nothing physically wrong with young Phillip," Dr. Jeremiah Jenkins, a family friend, stated in a soft, yet absent voice, putting his glasses in his coat pocket, rubbing the back of his hand against his chin. "This candle business he has been speaking about, how long has he been going on about it?"

"To be quite honest, and part of my alarm in calling you to see him," she answered, looking over her shoulder at Phillip, sprawled out on the floor, doodling around with his drawing pencils and paper, "for as long as I can remember, off and on since he first started speaking."

"Well," no longer rubbing his chin, the good doctor vacantly stared in the general direction of Phillip, focusing inwardly as was his demeanor, "I have heard of this sort of thing, a condition like this." Sensing how his words may be causing concern outside of his own mind, he added, "Nothing to worry about really, not necessarily a bad type of condition, just a way in which some young children see the world outside of them, and in Phillip's case," glancing down at the intently sketching boy, "the world within them as well."

"Are you sure he is fine? With everything that happened ... with all that Eric went through," Tabitha's face and words pleaded for validation and something certain to lean on. "I don't want Phillip to have any troubles ..."

The doctor, rubbed his chin again, looking inward, vacantly outward, searching inside. "Yes, the business with Eric was difficult ... Tabitha ... please know," outward now, faintly smiling, "Phillip is fine, more than fine, in fact. Please, my dear friend, understand that what we are seeing in young Phillip is far from ... beyond far from, what we saw Eric walk through. Please do not put another thought in that direction. I have an acquaintance, an old friend, really — her name is Dr. Lynn — who's an exceptional person in this field of study, years devoted to the mind and all of its caverns, and she is scheduled to speak at the University in a few months' time. I shall open a line of correspondence with her on this matter, and I have no doubts that she will gladly meet with us to help shed," his eyes twinkling with his attempt at humor, "some light on our little situation."

Tabitha, now much calmer, allowed the joke to soften her mood enough to invoke a smile. "Okay, if you say he is fine then I will trust in that. Please keep me posted with any news, and we will start making preparations as well. Thank you, Jeremiah."

"More than fine," the doctor replied, now both hands in his pockets, "and I will most definitely keep you up to date with what I gather from Dr. Lynn. I am sure what she will have to say will prove to be helpful. And, Tabitha ... you're welcome."

At this, Phillip walked up to Dr. Jenkins, who stood almost twice his height, holding out with both of his little hands, with the tips of his fingers, a sheet of paper. "For you, Dr. Jenkins. I made this for you."

Phillip proudly handed it over. "It's a picture of you — you help people!" and with that he turned and skipped out of the room, radiating the energy that young people carry.

Dr. Jenkins looked down at the drawing in his hands: glasses, beard, overly bushy eyebrows, even the shoes matched up in color. But there in the middle of his chest, where the heart resides, there was a candle, a lit candle, with yellows and soft oranges, in young handmade streaks. There was light glowing out of him.

A smile, the strange, real type, the kind that forms only when deep strings have been strummed, opened across his face, but just for a moment, and then inward he went, into his thinking, before heading out the door to write a letter to Dr. Lynn.

CHAPTER 3

The Girl in the Green Dress

Up to this point, Phillip held, within his heart of innermost hearts, tightly onto the belief of the candle inside, with its soft glow warmly working, streaking from the inside out. Opening up what is inside to the world around can be a beautiful experience, such as a butterfly that has been tightly tucked into a leathery husk of a cocoon, unfolding, working its wings to freedom. Or, the process of sharing one's real self can be disastrous, swinging wide the gate to all the hallowed places and feelings within, only to be bruised, then deciding that all is cold and to be untrusted, closing up, barricading the door from what might come in and what might go out.

Phillip stood in front of his class, about to share a beginning-of-the-year writing assignment, an introductory piece about who he is and what is important to him.

He held firmly to the paper, looking down at what was written, glancing up over the top edge of the paper at the class. His teacher, smiling, in the back of the room with her arms casually folded, encouraged him: "Whenever you're ready Phillip; you are going to do great."

Through a bit of nerves, clearing his throat, he began, "I am Phillip. I live only a short distance away from school, and soon I will be walking to school and home by myself. My mom wants to walk with me for a few days just to make sure I know the way." Another clearing of his voice, looking around at his classmates, then Phillip blurted, "I don't know my father."

Snickering erupted from a group of boys in the back corner, which to the teacher's credit was quickly smashed under a severe glare in their direction, but which softened back upon Phillip to carry on.

"But I do know my mom, and she is the most amazing person I have ever met. She is strong, funny, loving, and a great listener. She always encourages me to do my best. I like to build things. I enjoy reading and writing. Also, I am very fond of drawing pictures."

Phillip then turned his paper over in his hands, around for everyone to see, handing a piece of himself over to the class. It was a portrait of him, carefully detailed, with shaggy dark hair, worn sneakers, and right in the middle of his chest, where the heart resides, a candle complete with flame.

Phillip had gone this far, so he finished by explaining, "There I am, with a candle inside."

At this the boys of the back corner fully exploded with snide, loud laughter, which once again, to the teacher's credit, was pummeled beneath a stare and face that could cut an apple, along with a strongly darted statement: "It is obvious that there are those in my class that are too immature for listening and sharing. Perhaps a word home to the parents of these few about the necessity of respect and class etiquette is in order." Turning her harsh glare from the boys of the back corner, softening, softening more, back to Phillip, her face and words spoke gently now: "Thank you, Phillip, for sharing. It is clear that you do have a way with words, and I agree with your mother — you do have great talent at drawing."

In this moment, Phillip couldn't quite believe his eyes, but as she was speaking to him, he thought he could see, just for a brief glimmer of a second, a lit candle within his teacher's chest. It flickered and was gone before he could believe or not believe.

"Well done, Phillip. Could you please place your paper on my desk and have a seat."

* * *

Later, at recess, the boys of the back corner caught up with Phillip, and amidst the delighted squeals and far-carrying laughter that accompanies trees, sand, and a field of play, their hurtful words were hidden, camouflaged within the concert of noise.

"A candle ... of all the stupid things I have heard in my time, a blooming candle. What kind of fool goes about thinking he's got a candle inside of him?" this coming from the obvious ringleader of the group.

Another chimed in mockingly, "Yeah ... his mother loves him so much though ... so loving and caring. Perhaps old dear mother should take her son to get his head checked for bats flying around."

The last of the three now, chomping at the bit to outdo his pals, threw the biggest verbal stone: "No wonder your father is gone ... he left because his dear old son is soft in the head."

Phillip, now tense and more than ever in his life wanting to harden his hand and swing it, was stopped in his tracks by a voice, a rather jarring voice.

"Excuse me." All turned to see a dainty girl with long brown hair and wearing a green dress. "I hope you know that right now the three of you," she addressed the boys of the back corner coolly, "look mighty tough picking on one kid."

Her tone shifted from cool to very much heated. "Well, now I am here and the odds," she threatened, eyeing each of them in sequence, "have changed quite a bit."

Although she looked small for her age, the girl's words and posture held a certain command. Boldly staring at the three, she issued her challenge: "If you're so tough, I am going to want to see just how tough the three of you are. Say one more word ... I don't mind getting my dress dirty today."

The three boys of the back corner clenched their lips, each looking to one another for the word or nod to continue their assault, but it didn't come. Something about this girl, as they were each individually starting to realize they had never met before, was off-putting and, strangely, although she was small for her age, powerful.

"Just who are you anyway?" asked the obvious ringleader, knowing he had to play for his followers, but not play too hard or else the little girl might just get her dress dirty.

She eyed him as if he were made of wet paper. "Names aren't so important, not as important as words or actions, especially actions — they mean the world. And I see by your lack thereof that you are just a group of cowards."

Stone-eyeing them even more heatedly, one by one by one, face to face to face, the girl continued flexing her fingers open and closed into fists. "I suggest you boys move along," pausing a moment for effect to look down at her hand tightening and loosening, "before I start acting."

The ringleader, realizing how badly he was losing face, tried desperately to save it. "Come on, guys. We don't need to waste our time messing with these two." Turning and being followed by the other two, he led them off into the bouncing, running, and laughing chorus of recess.

The young girl sat beside Phillip, who was now, after the confrontation, sitting on the wooden block edging that contained the base of a very solid, ancient oak, growing and stretching above them.

"Never mind that type, Phillip," she said. "They have a lot of polishing to go through in this life."

"Wait," Phillip quickly turned to her, his eyes meeting hers for the first time, noticing how clear and sparkling they were. "How do you know my name?"

"Like I said earlier," though when she said it this time it was much softer, "names aren't so important."

"Are you in my class?" He found himself unable to break away from her eyes.

"Yes ... and no," she replied with a smile.

He tilted his head side-to-side like a puppy hearing whistling for the first time. "Yes and no," he repeated her coy words, smiling in return. "You are something, you know, standing up for me like that."

"I know! I am rather special." Now a full grin further lit up her eyes. "Can I tell you something, Phillip?"

Sensing the conversation going into waters away from the shore, like when his mom talked to him at times, Phillip looked hard at the little girl in the green dress. "Yes, I'm all ears."

"No matter what people say, Phillip — others, such as those boys — you must hold on to the light that is inside you."

He glanced away slightly. "You believe me, then ... the candle inside of me ... you believe, too?"

"I believe that, and a great deal more. I believe in you, Phillip, and I see that there are special gifts placed within you, building, drawing, writing. ... and much more inside, along with your candle."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Candle Maker"
by .
Copyright © 2017 James Ryan Orr.
Excerpted by permission of Morgan James Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Prologue Candle,
Part One,
Chapter 1 A Little Light Inside a Little Boy,
Chapter 2 Drawing Dr. Jenkins,
Chapter 3 The Girl in the Green Dress,
Chapter 4 Meeting Dr. Lynn,
Part Two,
Chapter 5 Snow,
Chapter 6 Worn Shoes and the Lesson of Sight,
Chapter 7 Out the Door,
Chapter 8 University,
Chapter 9 Bright Light,
Chapter 10 Hope's Morning Song,
Chapter 11 The Wind of Angel Wings,
Chapter 12 New Life,
Chapter 13 Room for Three,
Chapter 14 The Burned-Out Building,
Chapter 15 The Folded Paper,
Chapter 16 Stars Above,
Part Three,
Chapter 17 All Things Great and Powerful,
Chapter 18 The Final Speech,
The Candle Maker Epilogue,