Not to be talking about my wife all the time or anything … but when Jeanie was teaching back in the States in elementary school, she taught third, fourth and sixth grades. 

And you know how it is: From time to time, grateful parents bring a little gift just to say “Thank you,” or “You are appreciated.” This was especially true at Christmas and Valentines. On those occasions, Jeanie would bring home more bags of goodies than a Carrefour shopper looking for a deal on cooking oil. 

But, hold on. It was nothing—nothing—compared to the sheer quantity of stuff she was given when she taught kindergarten! These anxious parents, giving up their little precious and very gifted, by the way, child to someone who would spend more time with the kid than they would themselves, were so eager to please, and so hopeful the teacher would like, nay, adore, their child — I say, these parent brought gifts by the wagonload: chocolate, cookies, fruit, books, bars of soap, bubble bath, flowers, gift cards, and more. After Christmas or Valentine’s Day, our living room looked like a showroom at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I’m serious. I was amazed.

I’m not being crass here. I’m simply stating what we—parents and teachers alike—all know: Some parents enjoy expressing gratitude and there’s nothing wrong with that. Repeat: Nothing. Wrong. With. That.

This comes to mind because last week a parent gave Jeanie a small gift: a beautiful candle. And it got me to musing about candles and our fascination with candles.

Something about a candle—often burning alone, throwing its light into an otherwise darkened space. Occasionally, though, we’ll light a candle for the aroma it floats across the room. (Jeanie will often fire up a few candles right after I’ve finished burning something in the kitchen.) And we light candles on solemn occasions, or happy ones. 

We like candles because a candle is a metaphor for a single individual as a flame of light, perhaps even a source of warmth, perhaps even a refreshing fragrance. 

I can’t speak for others, so I must say that as a figurative candle, I suppose I could be better. For one thing, I’m often burning the candle at both ends, and that’s not too bright. I’m not so sure how much light I’m sharing, how much warmth I offer, and as for fragrance—well, let’s not go there.

Novelist Edith Wharton once said that “there are two ways of spreading light, to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

This is helpful. Perhaps some of us do better as mirrors. We take the light coming from many different sources—literature, friends, our faith tradition, communities and networks such as what we have here at Shanghai American School—and we reflect it, we pass it on, we share it. I had a publisher back in the States who once brought the editorial team together and reminded us that “it doesn’t matter what you know; what matters is what you share.” 

Yup. Knowledge hoarded isn’t much use. Light hid under a basket isn’t too helpful. Mirrors that are covered with a layer of grime aren’t too useful. 

This issue of The EAGLE is like a candle—sharing light, warmth and fragrance. Our children are like that, too: little candles—sharing joy one moment, and dripping wax all over the place the next.

And by the way, my office is located on Pudong campus, L-207, in case you’re looking to drop by a gift bag.  Xin nian kuai le!

—Timothy Merrill, Editor, The EAGLE