Flickering Flames and Hidden Magic
A Childhood Journey Through Church Rituals
Early Sundays:
Smoke-laced memories of Saturday night clung to me as I hauled a bleary-eyed Vicky towards the church. Unlike other families, ours wouldn't be joining today as they were up partying all night. At seven, I became the designated churchgoer. My parents dropped us off before disappearing, leaving us to our haven: the coveted balcony seats.
Here we'd touch the cool holy water font, giggling while wondering if it held hidden magic against unseen anxieties. The Latin chants washed over me as my young mind dwelled on sin. Catechism classes had instilled a fear of venial and mortal sins within me. Venial sins sent you to purgatory's waiting room, while mortal sins were a one-way ticket to you know where. Missing Mass seemed worse than mere tardiness. I worried about the fate of my parents, as well as my own and Vicky’s.
Candle Ritual:
Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of color across the worn pews. Votive candles beckoned us to the altar. We didn't have money, but we'd linger near them, pretending to admire the glass until a stray match found its way into our eager hands. Feeling guilty and excited at the same time, we lit the wicks. The flames flickered with unspoken prayers for forgiveness, good grades, and even a less embarrassing haircut for Vicky.
One Sunday, we lit not just one, but three candles each. We giggled as the heat tickled our fingers. Suddenly, a hand gently touched my shoulder. It was Mrs. Jenkins, a kind old lady who always sat in the front pew. She didn't scold us, her gaze softening as she saw the flickering flames. Pulling out a crisp dollar bill, she placed it in our hands, her smile warm. "Light another one, dears," she said, "for good luck." That day, the church felt different, the mystery of faith holding a new element: the power of light ignited by kindness.
Seeking Answers:
We watched wide-eyed as people lined up at the communion rail, receiving something white and bowing their heads. We yearned for our first communion so that we too could participate. One Sunday, we decided we could wait no longer, curiosity and mischief led us to sneak into the line. Kneeling amongst the grown-ups, we mimicked their every move, our hearts pounding like drums.
The priest approached, his smile disarming our nervous giggles. He placed a wafer on each of our tongues, whispering, "The Body of Christ." Imitating the others, we crossed ourselves. They tasted bland yet strangely comforting. Mine stuck to the roof of my mouth. I spent the rest of the Mass trying to dislodge it, afraid to chew what is said to be the body of Christ.
What was this all about? We left the rail, not with answers, but with a deeper sense of intrigue that transcended the balcony's vantage point. The mystery of faith, we realized, was an exploration, not a destination. And perhaps, just perhaps, even purgatory wouldn't be so bad with Vicky by my side.