CANDLES come into their own at this time of year.

The sun is beginning to set by the time I arrive home with the kids from school. The house feels cold and the fast-approaching darkness means making it cosy feels like a necessity.

So for me, this is the time to decorate the house with candles. I’ve always loved them, especially since having a coal fire is no longer possible. Candles bring a live flame into the house to ward off the dark.

They have other functions too, of course, such as romance and remembrance: a candlelit dinner is more than just food, a candle burning brightly to remember someone is a light that speaks of love.

But candles also represent hope because they shine even when the darkness attempts to engulf everything around them. They have a defiance against the dark.

I have an early memory of this power of candles to transform the darkness.

I was a young child and was in a church. It was a candlelit Christmas service but, to my surprise, when I arrived, the church was in semi-darkness. I expected to see it lit by lots of candles but there were just one or two big candles in the corners of the nave.

Everyone arriving was given a thin, handheld, unlit candle. I grasped mine but we had nothing to light it with. We stumbled in the semi-darkness to our seats. The congregation were shadows, the church itself was shrouded in a carpet of darkness. I remember thinking it all seemed a bit disappointing and almost eerie.

It was just too dark; not what I had expected.

The service began and still the darkness reigned. But soon came the moment for the people sitting close to the big candles to light their small handheld ones. Once they had done this, they turned to their neighbour and lit their candle, and then they did the same for the person next to them.

I watched as a sea of light began to spread through the darkness. It began slowly, but then, as more people had their candles lit, the light spread quicker and began to illuminate the building.

Countless small candles, which on their own would have found it difficult to pierce the dark, began to light up the church. It was magical and powerful.

I remember vividly watching the tide of light approach me as I waited impatiently for my turn to become part of the transformation.

An elderly women standing in front of me, whose kind, smiling face I still see in my mind’s eye, turned round once her candle had been lit and offered me her flame. I lit my candle with it, watched it sizzle for a few seconds, then burn brightly.

I smiled and thanked her. It was my turn now to turn and offer the flame to the person behind me. I was now part of the change.

And so, soon, where once there had been darkness and shadows, there was light and connection.

That was nearly 50 years ago, but the sight and symbolism of it has never left me.

So, as we settle into our wee house in the early evening, I light our candles and give thanks for having a roof over our heads, for being free from the terrors of war, for the love of family and friends, and for the simple gifts we take for granted every day.

When it seems darkness has the upper hand, I learnt from that experience in the church that even one lit candle is a beacon from which many others can shine, as long as we share the flame. It shows us that small candles can overcome darkness, that love will triumph over hate, that understanding will eventually undo intolerance.

But we must share the flame.