I slip into the nave for a moment of prayer,
which, while it makes my soul sing,
also stokes heaviness in my heart that
I am sitting here alone, with teary eyes.
The light streams through stained glass
like it always does this time of day and year,
yet never so wonderfully than after
fifty-seven days of only memories.
To the left of the altar hangs the sanctuary light,
the visible reminder of Jesus’ presence with us
in bread and wine: blessed, broken, and poured.
My heart swells when I see it is still on.
I giggle when I remember past days of
critique when I suggested we use only certain
real candles, that it needed to be authentic.
The electric bulb in its red glass sconce once seemed
to fall short of the beautiful experience it could be.
Yet now I sit here, my heart bursting with gratitude:
that I forgot to consume the elements in Holy Week,
that I never replaced this bulb with a candle
that would have burned out in only a week,
and that the red light is there with bread and wine,
reminding us all that His Presence never leaves.