If You Were The Only One

Last Friday I was flying to Denver for the first rehearsal of the Candlelight Services at Mile Hi Church. Because of windy conditions in both Reno and Denver, the flight was delayed. So I found myself sitting in the airport—nowhere to go, nothing to do—checking messages, catching up on email, scrolling through Facebook.

In that in-between space, I came across a livestream from an old friend, Jeff Ferguson. He does a short daily reflection at noon. Normally I notice it and keep scrolling. This time, for whatever reason, I stopped and listened.

He began talking about a well-known Christian artist, Steve Archer. My ears perked up immediately, because Steve recorded a song I co-wrote in the late ’80s called If You Were the Only One. That song reached #1 on the Contemporary Christian Music charts almost forty years ago. And then—unexpectedly—Jeff started talking about that very song. He even mentioned my name as one of the writers.

I just happened to be listening. On a random Friday morning.
Only because my flight was delayed. What are the chances?

At first, my mind wanted to judge the moment. To remind myself that I don’t believe the same things I believed back then. That my theology has shifted. That my understanding of Jesus and Christ Consciousness has evolved. That that season of my life sometimes feels like a previous lifetime. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t what the moment was about at all. What stayed with me was something simpler.

I haven’t been forgotten.

Something I created a long time ago is still alive in someone else’s consciousness. And in that moment, so was I. The meaning of the song—its true meaning—hadn’t changed.

At its heart, the song isn’t really about theology. It’s about presence. It’s about the idea that if you were the only one who needed to be seen, loved, and met with unconditional presence, love would still show up.

I don’t have to return to the original framing of the song—about Jesus dying for our sins—to receive that truth now. I can let the essence remain without carrying the old container with it.

And somehow, that truth connected perfectly to where I am right now—and to these candlelight services I’m about to be part of. Candlelight isn’t about spectacle. It’s not about lighting the whole room at once. It’s about one flame lighting another.

What came into my awareness was this simple image:

If there were only one flame in the room, it would still light up the darkness.

That feels like the through-line of my life right now.

I’m no longer trying to convince, convert, or carry anything that isn’t mine to carry. I’m not trying to be bigger, louder, or more certain. I’m learning to trust that showing up fully—as I am, where I am—is enough.

Lately, I’ve been reimagining and regrouping. What sometimes feels like depression, or like I’ve overstayed my welcome, or entered a “been there, done that” season in some people’s eyes, feels—when I slow down—more like a reset. A season of releasing.

And right in the middle of that, I receive this small, unexpected reminder: I am okay exactly where I am. I can slow down. I don’t have to reclaim old meanings or re-enter old worlds to honor what was real. I can simply acknowledge that I’ve already made a difference—and allow myself not to know what’s next.

I’m not here because I want anything earth-shattering to happen. I’m not trying to be more than I am. My intention right now is simply to rest in this moment of being—without performing, without striving, without needing to make it mean anything.

I’m only one candle, but if there were only one flame, it would still matter.

And so it is.