Grace by Candlelight

The white vigil candle in her grubby hand mirrors the shape of the syringe in her pocket. The fluted drip protector, the twin of the flange on the syringe’s barrel; the wick, the cousin of the needle. Yet the transparency of the plastic is a lie. A lie, about the powers that lie within.

The choir sings. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.

The candle refused to light no matter how many times the usher at the door, the one with the salesman’s smile and undertaker’s suit, held it to the flame while beckoning her inside with promises of whatever ushers promise.

Round yon virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild.

From the last pew in back, she observes the congregants, arms slung around shoulders of their too perfect children. As if a beacon, she senses her threadbare coat glow scarlet against their Sunday best and Christmas sweaters. Maybe father had been right, that religion is just another the opiate to which she’d added “of the masses,” an ironic afterthought given where she is tonight. Still, back then, she’d gone to church anyway, every Sunday just to spite the bastard. For what? She no longer remembers. But that was all a lifetime ago. And, look where defiance got her—to this place with nowhere else to go.

She fingers the syringe. She shouldn’t have come inside. Outside would have done. She was used to outside, looking at in from an inside she could not escape.

Not long now and this would all be over.

Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep…

Without warning, the choir falls silent, frozen figurines in crimson robes, eyes fixed on the crucifix floating above the altar. Suddenly, every last eye pivots to her. The faces, so tranquil before, now cadaverous masks, unblinking haunted eyes, mouths contorted in pain, skin bloodless white. Wails echo off the granite walls of the sanctuary, then attenuate as if she’s tumbling down the deep well once and for all.

A young man, his thorn studded forehead stippled red, reaches out for her from the cross, but, when she tries to go to him, she finds her feet shackled.

She falls to her knees.

Panicked, she looks to the pulpit for the priest, but it stands empty. She cuts her gaze to the crucifix and soft hands grip hers, yet, looking down, could not see them. Then, with no other choice, she submits to the warm wave pulling her under.

When she opens her eyes, the choir sings “in heavenly peace.” Every face lifted to the crucifix where she too sees the face of a father now.

The priest raises black arms wide, chalky palms up as if feeding birds at a park on a gentle spring day. “Before we sing the last verse and go forth to be with family and friends, let us pray for the less fortunate, that they may share in God’s blessings this Christmas,” he says.

She bows her head in prayer, but only for a second, before following the crowd, all souls moving forward as one, into the night.

Outside, she buries the syringe in the snow bank alongside her blazing candle, among the sea of candles, all bright as stars.

Then the church bells sound twelve and the final words of the echo in her ears. This time, she sings.

Silent night, holy night,
Son of God, love's pure light;
Radiant beams from thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.