Votive candle

It is a bright, warm day on the Central California coast. The streaming sunlight leaves me squinting as I walk under the bougainvillea arbor to the side door of Immaculate Conception Church. This is not one of the newer churches streaming with light and love. It is one of the old Gothic styles filled with darkness and mystery and when I enter I head toward the only source of light, a large bank of votive candles blazing in an alcove of offerings.

In front of the rack is a prie-dieu with a donation tin. I take out my quarters, drop in two, take one of the prepared wicks and light my votive. Though my devotion and belief is rapidly disappearing, I still return here to light a light in the face of grief and loss. My mother has recently passed. And though she herself, was not much of a believer, I want to send her my love and thoughts.

As my eyes adjust to the surroundings I notice that I am not alone. The mea-culpa march is proceeding in the aisles as at least five different women move through the stations of the cross. I find myself studying each of them, analyzing their devotion, and trying to decipher their movements. Two older Mexican women are at opposite ends of the stations. Each of them wears lace mantillas. Each performs elaborate personal rituals at each station. One of them genuflects twice each time. The other performs multiple signs of the cross before her singular genuflection. Each of their movements is slow and deliberate. In the middle is an older Italian grandmother, she is stooped and cannot genuflect anymore. Her signs of the cross are not sweeping or elaborate, but small and painful. As I watch them through the smoke of the votive candles in the dim light of the gothic nave, I am both jealous of the depth of their devotion and suspicious of its sincerity.

At this point, I realize someone is watching me watching the women. I turn toward the votive bank and notice a woman with red hair with a very small piece of cloth pinned to the top of her head. I turn away thinking that she is not really watching me. It is difficult to tell what is going on in the mystery and smoke of the dark church. Only the indistinct mumbling of the devotees and the occasional sputtering of the votive candles breaks the silence. I still feel I am being looked at and so look back at the red-headed woman and she is in fact, staring at me. She has large beckoning green eyes focused directly at me. I raise my eyebrows questioningly and her eyes turn toward the exit door and then she herself turns and leaves. Whoever this is, she is not your typical church lady, so I get up and go to the same exit door. I instinctively place my hand in the holy-water font, cross myself, and leave.

Outside again in the too-bright sun, I see no one. It must have been my imagination and I turn to walk home when I hear my name called: “Mr. Baker?” I turn toward the unfamiliar voice and there is the red-headed apparition herself. “Do I know you?” I ask. “No, she says” and hands me a large manilla envelope. “Consider yourself served,” she says “Have a better day from here.” and she walks away. I stare at the envelope and am pretty sure what is inside: Divorce Papers. Rather than open it up and read it, I reenter the church. I take out more quarters and light another votive candle, this one for myself. The unending mea-culpa march is continuing on the stations of the cross. This time, though, I think about joining rather than observing the journey.

— DanielSouthGate