Light Through the Shadows

Sistine Chapel Family Visit, May 2011

Halloween and All Saints’ Day have always felt like two sides of the same coin—one playful and earthly, the other reverent and eternal. Together they remind me that light and shadow are both part of life’s tapestry, and that even as the world grows darker and colder, there is always a glimmer of something sacred shining through.

As a child, I loved Halloween’s laughter and the rustle of leaves beneath our feet. We paraded through the neighborhood with pillowcases, flashlights, and sugar-coated dreams, unaware that the day’s ancient roots reached far deeper than candy and costumes. Long before it became a night of tricks and treats, it was All Hallows’ Eve—the vigil before All Saints’ Day—a time to remember those who had gone before us, whose lives lit the path we walk today.

That quiet thread of remembrance has always stayed with me. In my own family, I think of generations past—the women who stirred pots over wood stoves, the men who labored through long winters, the faith that carried them through wars, loss, and lean years. Writing The Philadelphia Matriarch, I often felt their presence, almost as if they were whispering over my shoulder. Their stories, like candles in the dark, continue to guide me.

On November 1st, the church bells ring not in mourning, but in gratitude—for every soul that has finished their journey and now rests in the company of saints. I’ve always found beauty in that pause between the two days: Halloween’s mischief fading into All Saints’ quiet grace. One celebrates imagination; the other honors inspiration. Together, they form a rhythm of remembering—joy and reverence, laughter and prayer.

These days, I like to mark that transition intentionally. The pumpkins stay on the porch, but the candles inside take on new meaning. I light one for my parents, another for my grandparents, and one for the unnamed ancestors whose faith I now carry. The glow is softer than the bright orange of Halloween, yet somehow it feels warmer—anchored in remembrance and hope.

All Saints’ Day reminds me that every life leaves ripples, even long after the name fades from memory. The kindness shown, the prayers whispered, the love shared—these are the things that endure. Perhaps that’s what the season teaches most clearly: that death is not an ending, but a doorway, and love never truly departs.

So as October’s laughter gives way to November’s quiet, may we honor both—the childlike wonder that keeps our spirits alive, and the faithful remembrance that keeps our souls steady.

Between the candlelight and the falling leaves lies a gentle truth: life is brief, but its light can reach across generations.

Light of the Faithful

They walk with us in quiet ways,

the saints whose work is done—

their laughter echoes through our days,

their prayers like morning sun.

They’ve left no need for monuments,

no marble carved with name—

their legacy is kindness shared,

their torch a steady flame.

Through weathered years and tear-worn hands,

they shaped what we became,

with faith that rooted, love that stood,

and hope that never waned.

Now candles glow where shadows fall,

each wick a whispered prayer—

reminding us that death’s thin veil

can’t hide their presence there.

For every saint was once like us,

with doubts, with dreams, with fears—

yet grace transformed their simple faith

and sanctified their years.

So let us live as they have shown,

with courage, heart, and song—

to carry light where darkness dwells,

and join their joyful throng.