From Chicken Soup for the Romantic Soul

The Missing Candelabra

A little girl at a wedding afterwards asked her mother why the bride changed her mind. “What do you mean?” responded her mother. “Well, she went down the aisle with one man, and came back with another.”

Author Unknown

It was one of the largest weddings ever held at Wilshire. Fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, the church parking lots were overflowing with cars, and scores of people were crowding into the foyer, waiting to be properly seated. It was the kind of occasion that warms the heart of a pastor.

But that was fifteen minutes before the service.

At exactly seven o’clock the mothers were seated, and the organist sounded the triumphant notes of the processional. That was my cue to enter the sanctuary through the side door at the front and begin presiding over the happy occasion. As I reached for the door a voice called from down the hall, “Not yet, Pastor. Don’t open the door. I’ve got a message for you.”

I turned and through the subdued lighting I saw the assistant florist hurrying as fast as she could toward me. Her speed didn’t set any records, because she was about eight months pregnant and waddled down the hall with obvious difficulty. She was nearly out of breath when she reached me. “Pastor,” she panted, “we can’t find the candelabra that you are supposed to use at the close of the ceremony. We’ve looked everywhere, and it just can’t be found. What on earth can we do?”

I sensed immediately that we had a big problem on our hands. The couple to be married had specifically requested that the unity candle be a part of the wedding service. We had gone over it carefully at the rehearsal—step by step. The candelabra, designed to hold three candles, was to be placed near the altar. The mothers of the bride and groom would be ushered down the aisle, each carrying a lighted candle. Upon reaching the front of the sanctuary, they were to move to the candelabra and place their candles in the appropriate receptacles. Throughout the ceremony the mothers’ candles were to burn slowly while the larger middle one remained unlighted. After the vows had been spoken, the bride and groom would light the center candle. This was designed to symbolize family unity as well as the light of God’s love in the new relationship.

I felt good about all this at the rehearsal. I had a special verse of scripture that I planned to read as the couple lighted the middle candle. We had it down to perfection.

We thought.

The notes from the organ pealed louder and louder as I was stalled in the hallway. I knew that the organist by now was glancing over her left shoulder wondering where in the world the minister was.

“Okay,” I said to the perplexed florist, “We’ll just have to wing it. I’ll cut that part out of the ceremony and improvise at the close.”

With those words I opened the door and entered the sanctuary, muttering behind my frozen smile, What on earth are we going to do?

The groom and his attendants followed me in. The bride and her attendants came down the left aisle of the sanctuary. When the first bridesmaid arrived at the front, she whispered something in my direction.

The puzzled look on my face was a signal to her that I did not understand.

She whispered the message again, opening her mouth wider and emphasizing every syllable. By straining to hear above the organ and through lip-reading, I made out what she was saying: “Go ahead with the unity candle part of the ceremony.”

“But . . . how?” I whispered through my teeth with a plastic smile.

“Just go ahead,” she signaled back.

We made it through the first part of the ceremony without any difficulty.

Everyone was beaming in delight because of the happy occasion—everyone except the first bridesmaid who had brought me the message. When I looked in her direction for some additional word about the candelabra, she had a stoic look on her face and her mouth was tightly clamped shut. Obviously, she was out of messages for me.

We continued with the ceremony. I read a passage from Corinthians 1:13 and emphasized the importance of love and patience in building a marriage relationship. I asked the bride and groom to join hands, and I began to talk about the vows they would make. There wasn’t a hitch. I was beginning to feel better, but I still had to figure out some way to conclude the service. Just now, however, we needed to get through the vows and rings.

“John, in taking the woman whom you hold by your hand to be your wife, do you promise to love her?”

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” the bride interrupted with a loud whisper. I turned from the bewildered groom to look at her and noticed that she was staring toward her right, to the organ side of the front of the sanctuary. Not only was she looking in that direction, so were all the attendants, and so was the audience! One thousand eyes focused on a moving target to my left. I knew it was moving, for heads and eyes followed it, turning ever so slightly in slow-motion style.

The moving target was none other than the assistant florist. She had slipped through the door by the organ and was moving on hands and knees behind the choir rail toward the center of the platform where I stood. The dear lady, “great with child,” thought she was out of sight, beneath the rail. But in fact, her posterior bobbled in plain view six inches above the choir rail. As she crawled along she carried in each hand a burning candle. To make matters worse, she didn’t realize that she was silhouetted—a large, moving, “pregnant” shadow—on the wall behind the choir loft.

The wedding party experienced the agony of smothered, stifled laughter. Their only release was the flow of hysterical tears while they fought to keep their composure. Two or three of the bride’s attendants shook so hard that petals of the flowers in their bouquets fell to the floor.

It was a welcomed moment for me when the vows were completed and I could say with what little piety remained, “Now, let us bow our heads and close our eyes for a special prayer.” This was a signal for the soloist to sing “The Lord’s Prayer.” It also gave me a chance to peep during the singing and figure out what in the world was happening.

“Pssst. Pssst!”

I did a half turn, looked down and saw a lighted candle being pushed through the greenery behind me.

“Take this candle,” the persistent florist said.

The soloist continued to sing, “Give us this day our daily bread. . . .”

“Pssst. Now take this one,” the voice behind me said as a second candle was poked through the greenery.

“. . . as we forgive those who trespass against us . . .”

I was beginning to catch on. So I was to be the human candelabra. Here I stood, with a candle in each hand and my Bible and notes tucked under my arm.

“Where’s the third candle?” I whispered above the sounds of “. . . but deliver us from evil . . .”

“Between my knees,” the florist answered. “Just a minute and I’ll pass it through to you.”

That’s when the bride lost it. So did several of the attendants. The last notes of “The Lord’s Prayer” were drowned out by the snickers all around me.

I couldn’t afford such luxury. Somebody had to carry this thing on to conclusion and try to rescue something from it, candelabra or no candelabra. I determined to do just that as I now tried to juggle three candles, a Bible and wedding notes. My problem was complicated by the fact that two of the candles were burning, and the third one soon would be.

The dilemma was challenging, a situation that called for creative action—in a hurry. Nothing in the Pastors’ Manual addressed this predicament. Nor had it ever been mentioned in a seminary class on pastoral responsibilities. I was on my own.

I handed one candle to the nearly hysterical bride, who was laughing so hard that tears were trickling down her cheeks. I handed the other to the groom, who was beginning to question all the reassurances I had passed out freely at the rehearsal. My statements about “no problems,” and “we’ll breeze through the service without a hitch,” and “just relax and trust me,” were beginning to sound hollow.

I held the last candle in my hands. They were to light it together from the ones they were each holding. Miraculously, we made it through that part in spite of jerking hands and tears of smothered laughter. Now we had three burning candles.

In a very soft, reassuring voice, I whispered, “That’s fine. Now each of you blow out your candle.”

Golly, I said to myself, we’re going to get through this thing yet.

That thought skipped through my mind just before the bride, still out of control, pulled her candle toward her mouth to blow it out, forgetting that she was wearing a nylon veil over her face.


The veil went up in smoke and disintegrated.

Fortunately, except for singed eyebrows, the bride was not injured.

Through the hole in the charred remains of her veil she gave me a bewildered look. I had no more reassurances for her, the groom or anybody. Enough was enough.

Disregarding my notes concerning the conclusion of the ceremony, I took all the candles and blew them out myself. Then, peering through the smoke of three extinguished candles, I signaled the organist to begin the recessional . . . now! Just get us out of here! Quickly!

Everything else is a blur.

But I still turn pale when prospective brides tell me about “this wonderful idea of using a unity candle” in the ceremony.

Bruce McIver

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