A Candlestick Prayer

Lessons from Augustine

Most mornings in Chilpancingo, Mexico, I walked an hour across the city to the college where I taught English. I was living there with my two daughters, trying to keep myself and my daughters safe after fleeing my home country to escape the violence of my ex-husband. Life felt fragile and uncertain, but each day I pressed forward, determined to give my girls a sense of safety and stability.

The scenery along my route rarely changed: rows of brightly painted buildings, some with arched windows and doors opening onto small courtyards dotted with mango trees and bursts of flowering plants.

After class, I would retrace the same one-hour trek home.

One afternoon, as I approached our house, I noticed a man sitting under a tree across the street. A tattered duffle bag slumped beside him, filled with worn clothes and a few meager possessions.

His shirt and pants were threadbare. Even the kindest passersby couldn’t help but glance. Chilpancingo’s dusty streets are harsh for anyone, but for the poor, they are merciless—loneliness, hunger, scorn, and despair can strip a person bare.

He smiled at me. I smiled back and wished him a good day. As I waited for a break in traffic to cross the street, I heard a faint sob, then a low, pleading voice.

“Por favor, Dios, favor de mandar a mi mamá que venga a recogerme. Por favor, Dios.”

(“Please, God, send my mother to come and get me. Please, God.”)

The raw sorrow in his voice stopped me.

I glanced back. From his duffle bag, he had pulled out a tarnished, ancient-looking candlestick. He held it to his ear like a telephone. Tears streaked his dust-covered cheeks, glistening like silver against the grime—tiny messengers of unspeakable grief.

He whispered again into the candlestick:

“Por favor, Mamá, ven a recogerme. Por favor, Mamá, tengo miedo. ¿Por qué me dejaste aquí solo?”

(“Please, Mom, come and get me. Please, Mom, I’m afraid. Why did you leave me here alone?”)

When the cars finally passed, I hurried across the street and into the house, but the sound of his voice stayed with me. Twenty minutes later, I stepped back outside carrying two plates of food, water, and juice.

The man was still there under the tree, still murmuring into his makeshift phone. His voice had grown so faint it was barely audible. I wish his mother could hear him.

I asked if I could sit down. He tucked the candlestick back into his shredded duffle bag and nodded. His face lit up with a warm, almost bashful smile as he accepted the food and juice.

“My name’s Augustine,” he said in Spanish. Then, almost shyly, he added, “But not like Saint Augustine.”

Augustine

In the months that followed, Augustine became my teacher under the tree.

He spoke of heartbreaks and losses that would have crushed the strongest among us. His mother had died when he was a child. He had no family left, no home to return to, no friends to share his burdens. Poverty and isolation had wrapped him in their cold arms, turning life into a kind of prison.

And yet, in the face of it all, Augustine remained gracious and kind.

We shared many meals and conversations. I bought him some new clothes to replace his tattered ones. He thanked me but refused my offer of a place to stay. The tree, or sometimes an empty stairwell near the market, was his chosen home.

As time passed, I wouldn’t see Augustine for days, even weeks. Then, now and again, he would knock on my door. If he was hungry, he knew he’d find a home-cooked meal and someone to talk to.

Once, I noticed his duffle bag had grown so worn that his few belongings spilled out onto the street. I found a sturdy canvas duffle bag in the garage and offered it to him.

He accepted it with a grateful smile but returned a little while later to hand it back.

“This bag is too nice to carry my humble possessions,” he said gently.

I looked down. His old duffle was now tied together with frayed twine.

“It will make do,” he added.

A Photo to Remember

Before the rainy season arrived, Augustine told me it was time for him to leave. He always spent those months in Chilapa, a small town 80 kilometers away, reached by a winding mountain road.

I offered to drive him. He shook his head.

“It will take me a week to walk, but I prefer the journey on foot,” he said.

I packed a little food and water for his trip. Then, almost shyly, I asked, “Would you mind if I took your photo? Just so I can remember you.”

Augustine’s face softened. “I would like that,” he said.

I took his picture, him sitting there under the tree that protected him from the sun, and after printing it off, tucked it away as a small treasure.

Augustine 2007

We said goodbye.

As I watched Augustine walk down the rutted street, past the gnarled tree that had been his shelter, a thought came to me: What if he were my child?

If he were, I would pray for someone to show him kindness on his journey. Someone to offer a hand, or at least a smile to remind him he was still part of the human family.

That was the last time I ever saw Augustine.

Or so I thought.

18 Years Later

Recently, I received a message from a friend who was my neighbor in Mexico.

“A man came to the house where you used to live,” she wrote. “He said he was looking for you.”

Attached was a photo.

“He said his name is Augustine,” she added.

After 18 years, he had come looking for me.

Augustine 2025

I don’t know if I will ever see Augustine again. But knowing he is still out there, still walking this earth, warms my heart in ways I can’t explain. I hope he has found kindness and gentleness out in the world.

I think of him often: the man with the candlestick phone, and the quiet dignity that no hardship could erase. He taught me more about grace than he’ll ever know.

What if every person we passed on the street were our own child, lost and afraid, whispering into a candlestick phone for someone to come? Perhaps we would smile more, stop more often, and listen more deeply.

If you meet an Augustine of your own, I hope you stop. Even for a moment. It might change nothing…or it might change everything. It did for me.