By Andrea Lingle

The following is based on Matthew 25:1–13 and Wisdom of Solomon 6:12–16

Wisdom is radiant and unfading, and she is easily discerned by those who love her, and is found by those who seek her.

The lamp was squat and round, shiny with many years of night's use. It remembered its first wick, a frayed affair twisted by the chubby fingers of a dark eyed girl. Even at its brightest, the lamp never could light those eyes. The lamp was carried through spring nights spotted with blood and infant cries. Sisters and brothers brought into the darkened night through the mystical pathway of the womb. It lit nights full of the soundtrack of whispers. Nervous whispers, excited whispers, eager whispers, terrified whispers. Always the little lamp sat silently, an illuminating observer.

She hastens to make herself known to those who desire her.

The clay that shaped the lamp was brown and fine. It might have once been red, but time and use had deepened it to a walnut sheen. There was a nick in its upper lip where a moment’s levity had made it tumble against a doorframe, but it was sound and well tempered. Its belly could hold through the night—even in the darkest months.

One who rises early to seek her will have no difficulty, for she will be found sitting at the gate.

This night the whispers were hushed a bit. Carried gently, filled and trimmed, the little lamp burned warmly, without fanfare. This was an impending night. It was a night to be full and burn long. The hands of the girl were fine, if tough. No longer the fingers of a child. These were the hands of one who waited on the edge of something new. Something to come. The hands were steady, but the oil in the lamp pulsed quickly with her pounding heart.

To fix one's thought on her is perfect understanding, and one who is vigilant on her account will soon be free from care,

The lamp had been filled just to the bottom of the notch. Perhaps even a bit beyond. Its outer surface was a bit slick even though it had not leaked. Not a drop could get through its steadfast sides. But perhaps it had lost that bit over the side. The girl waited. She did not murmur or pace, although some did. She stood as if she knew that all eternity waited with her. The lamp burned warmly in her hands. Gentle and hopeful. It would last.
But the lamp was tipped. Oil flowed over the notch in its lip and into a lamp, pale and cracked. This lamp had not known regular use. It had stood, empty and dry for too many dark nights its clay unable to keep the dryness from creeping into its sides. It was a poor, hungry lamp. It lapped up the offered oil.

The lamp would not burn through the night. It had given too much. The wick, trimmed and tidy would not last the night. The lamps burned together, twin lights. The hands that clasped them would meet the darkness together. As their wicks stuttered and dimmed, the darkness closed around them. The deep darkness of night wrapped the two empty pots in quiet.

because she goes about seeking those worthy of her, and she graciously appears to them in their paths, and meets them in every thought.