It has been a very long time since I lit Shabbat candles at home. Until recently I led Friday night services, and we lit candles there. But even when my congregation alternated, holding services on Friday night one week and Saturday morning the next, I didn’t bother to light candles on the Fridays that I was home.

I had come to view lighting Shabbat candles as communal, just as I had begun to view much of my expression of Judaism. Since leaving the pulpit this summer, I’ve simply neglected the ritual.

Last night was the first in over a week that no candles burned in my home. Hanukkah had ended. It was just a normal Thursday night.

And in that absence, I realized that those tiny flames held more than the symbolism of the holiday, more than the existential concept of bringing light into a dark world.

The candles connected me to Jews everywhere. Alone in my home, I was not alone.

Rabbi Ilan Glazer wrote this of the Hanukkah candles: “I am reminded every year… that candles all burn at their own pace. No two candles are the same. Some have bigger flames, and some smaller. Some go out quickly, and some hang on to every last bit of wick before their light goes out.”

Like the candles, we each go through life at our own pace; sometimes slow enough to not seem to be moving at all, sometimes so fast we are like a blur to others.

Lately, I’ve been traveling at a snail’s pace. Meandering along, my path is unplotted. I sometimes think I’ve found a route to follow but soon find myself wandering off in another direction.

A part of me is worried about this. But the Jewish optimist in me knows I’ll figure it out.

In the meantime, I will use my Shabbat candles to anchor me.

The candlesticks on the left belonged to my grandmother; the pair on the right was given to me by my daughters.