The Keeper of the Flame

Who holds the keeper? The bittersweet reflections of a first-time wedding celebrant on the profound joy and intense solitude of telling other people's love stories.

The screen went dark.

Silence rushed in to fill the space where their faces had been just a moment before.

*Beth, her eyes glistening with fresh tears, barely dry from the last time she was moved by the prose. *Aaron, his composure a beautiful yet transparent failure to fight the sob with a smile. I heard their laughter, a perfect unprompted duet. I watched them reach for each other's hand off-camera when I read the line describing their profound planetary pull.

The ceremony script was a success. My first one. When the video call ended, I sat in the blue quiet of my little Gite with Jonnie, my dog, hugging my feet. The glow of the monitor painting a pale square on the wall. I had done a good job. They loved it. They said those words. Did I believe them? Had I captured it in it’s true essence? How could I offer them a real reflection of their love?

I had taken their love, held it up to the light, and shown them its colours. And I had no one to tell. Just a voice in my head that questioned my own perspective on love. And the one that responded with certainty that love comes in many forms.

It’s a strange vocation, being a celebrant. I have the component parts: a history of public speaking, a writer’s love for the architecture of a sentence, a coach’s ear for the things not being said. And if I’m honest, a touch of the showboat. But I have never held this particular responsibility in my hands before.

The responsibility of a keeper. I am entrusted with the most sacred, intimate stories of others and it is my job to build a fire with them. A beacon bright enough for a whole community to gather around. For each person to be touched by the warmth of it’s glow.

Photo credit: https://stockcake.com/i/candlelit-eerie-atmosphere_1164410_953340">Stockcake</a>

When I began working with *Beth and *Aaron, I had only scattered kindling to work with. A jumble of words and sentiments. But it was the energy of their presence and my practiced intuition that could bring those words to life.

I sent out prompts to their family and friends, little digital keys to unlock memories. The responses trickled in and with them, the themes began to emerge.

Home. It wasn't a place. It was a person. Gravity. A force that pulled them together across continents, a "planetary pull," one friend wrote, that kept them oriented toward each other, no matter the distance. Team. This was the bedrock. It came from *Aaron’s history in sport, but it was bigger than that. It was in the way they hosted, the way they showed up, the way they weathered a move to Australia by turning one’s world upside down to match the other’s. They were, I was told, a team of 400 games unbeaten.

My work wasn’t simply creation or invention; it was excavation. I was an archaeologist brushing the dust off something that had been there all along. The stories from their friends were more than anecdotes; they were proof. The late-night care package of Harry Potter films. The "French exit" at Glastonbury. The unwavering loyalty to a friend who nearly burnt the house down. These were the milestones of their love.

My skill, if I can call it that, is simply in seeing the constellation in the scattered stars. In weaving it all into a narrative that makes the subjects, the lovers themselves, see their own magic with fresh eyes.

To see them react to my words—to their words and the words of those closest them, reflected back—was a profound and exquisitely painful joy. It was the joy of connection. Of having seen something true and articulated it well enough for them to feel it differently somehow. And just like that, the moment it was over and I was alone with the echo.

A maker of beautiful things for others to live in. A cartographer of a territory I have only observed. I do this work, I think, because I love to be close to the flame. I am a student of love, its loyal archivist, but never its subject. There’s a bittersweet irony in being able to build a home of words for two people and then returning to one’s own quiet room of solitude, the door clicking shut.

The success feels like a secret of which I am the keeper. It makes me think about them, about their 'team.' The ceremony I wrote for them is a celebration of that unity, a testament to the power of having someone in your corner, an anchor in the storm, a partner for the adventure.

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It leaves me with a question that hangs in the silence. It’s a question for me, and perhaps for you, reading this now. When the screen goes dark and the applause fades, when you’re left with only the echo of a job well done, who is on your team? Where do you go to find the strength to keep going? What is your destination, and who holds the map when you cannot find the way? For some, like *Beth and *Aaron, the answer is a person.

For the rest of us, the search is the story and we just have to keep turning the page.

Can you relate? Let’s connect in the comments.

Available for 1:2:1 Coaching - 90 minutes one off or 6 months intense. (3 months by agreement following 120 minute assessment) Wrong goals? Change of direction? Terrible transition? Fresh eyes? Connect with me at the following links:

https://www.linkedin.com/in/elizabeth-reece-msc-appcp-emcc-icf-af-26357a14/

https://www.quietwaters.space/book-online