I wonder if I haven’t always been the best host. For as much as I love entertaining, especially the signs of life that resound when family and friends fill my home, not to mention the art of it—the thoughtful table, creative details, favorite foods—there were years when I questioned why some of our gatherings felt like they’d ended before they ever really began.
Easy evenings with family or friends could still fall short. It wasn’t for lack of interest or desire. Intention was there: in the place settings, the music, the menu. The table always shined in the glow of new candles and our nicest linens. In some ways, I feel like I was made to create a mood, a feeling of warmth and welcome. It’s always been second nature to me, knowing how to shape and set the tone. What I had yet to learn was how to set it free.
“It’s always been second nature to me, knowing how to shape and set the tone. What I had yet to learn was how to set it free.”
Even though I genuinely longed for meals around full-hearted tables with seats squished close and love spilling out. Even though I desired, deeply, for people to feel at ease, held, and at home around my own table. There was, still, something in me all too willing to call it a night before giving it a chance to wholly unfold. I had this bad habit of blowing out the candles on the table just before the wax would begin to drip—which was, coincidentally, usually about halfway through dessert. I was also painfully aware of the work that awaited: the stacks of dishes on the counter, the pots and pans in the sink. All that needed to be washed, dried, and put away before I’d get to lay down my head.
So, I’d tell myself the practical thing to do was get started while I still had a bit of life left in me—clear the plates; start a load; catch the wax before it dripped down the candlestick, hardened, and became impossible to scrape free.
But closer to the truth? Avoiding an annoying task was only half of it. Now, I see the restless beat of my own heart, the efficiency-loving, on-to-the-next part of my personality that could not go gently into the unscripted after-dinner hour. Or, settle in long enough to be reminded of what our tables are meant for.
Only in retrospect can I see that timing was everything. Dripping wax signaled a shift in program—and tone. Here, conversation is on the move, traveling beyond family updates and wellness checks to the deeper recesses of hearts, where the real worries and quiet wishes live. It’s here, circled around an unkept table, between half-filled glasses and pushed-to-the-edge plates, where hope and truth and “Yes! You too?” linger between breaths. Where a half-cleared table becomes open space to reclaim. A blank page for new stories.
Illustration by Lida Ziruffo
What’s left over becomes an invitation to stay until you’ve had your fill. It’s here where less really does become more: more of you, more to life. All in the glow of candles burned down low.
Thankfully, at some point over the years, I promised myself, No more blowing out the candles. Instead, whenever people are gathered around my table—whether it is a planned or an unexpected moment—I’ll pull out the candlesticks with no end in mind. Instead of watching the clock, I watch the wax gather, then drip. I let it land where it’s meant to, and as for the evening, I let the same hold true.
This perspective, you should know, takes practice if you’re anything like me—if efficiency is something you prize. Fortunately, I’ve rebelled enough times to know the richness of an unhurried evening around the table. To know that this is where belonging roots in, shoulder to shoulder, faces locked in on each other. This is where we get to lift one another out of the blur of always on the run and back into this gift-song of light-filled living.
Because if we aren’t reawakened, stirred, or spurred on, we wither.
If we aren’t shown a slower path, we run out of breath.
These days, I’m glad to report that my cupboard is full of lopsided and wonky-looking candlesticks. Each one, wax-covered and carved with memory: Crowded holidays with family. Slow dinners with the kids. New faces (now old friends). Game nights with howling aftermath. My favorites I’ve pulled out and placed on shelves and dressers for year-round display. A tangible reminder of the best of times—and the promise of more.
Because that’s what we need. More people to open their doors, clear their tables, and light their candles. More connection that pulls us close, bridges our distances, and feeds our souls. More time for one another and with one another. More cupboards overflowing with candlesticks covered in wax.
This story has been adapted from the fall 2026 issue of Magnolia Journal. To see it in print, pick up your copy here or on a newsstand near you. Then, start a subscription for inspiration year-round.
