Song for a Vanilla Cynic

I reluctantly moved to the front pew and was promptly given the choir’s music. I groaned inside and held myself away from the church-people as much as I could, even turning my knees perpendicular to theirs in the pew. I decided to sing slightly out of tune. For good measure, I put my coat and my giant handbag between myself and all the other women in my row, who were looking at me far too eagerly.

I had just successfully separated myself from these desperate individuals when, as I was congratulating myself, I felt a finger at the back of my shirt. It tucked in my tag. A hand patted my back. I started a bit and turned to face a beaming and bearded older woman, who whispered conspiratorially, “It was sticking out. I hate when that happens to me!” I thanked her and sang in tune. What else could I do?

We finished rehearsing. Before the service began, I was handed two weeks of gas money. I gleefully shoved it into my bag, faith in my real reason for singing restored. I sat myself in the front row, like any good soloist, and prepared to be really bored until it was time to sing my song. Morty began the prelude. Two women entered and began walking down the aisle, carrying lit brass torches. One of them was bouncing eagerly, her movement not in keeping with her apparent age. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the she appeared to have Down syndrome. “There’s Janie!” came a stage whisper from behind me.

I glanced down at the bulletin. Candlelighters: Janie and Nan Browning. They ascended the stairs to the altar. Nan lit her candles with ease and grace, smiling, but there was no “calm and holy reverence” in Janie’s face. She wore a very determined look. For her, lighting the candles for the service was practical and challenging task. The whole congregation watched, entranced, as she used every muscle in her arms and legs, every bit of her concentration and will, to tip her quivering wick to the ascending tapers. Janie heaved and groaned a little, but lit the first two without major incident.

Then her wick went out. “Oh nooooo!” she wailed loudly, despair wrinkling her face. Nan went over to her and calmly lit her wick again with her own. Janie furrowed her brow and kept going. The candles, following the angle of the candelabra, were getting higher now, and more difficult to reach. The grunts got a little louder, and I could hear her gasping more heavily and straining hard toward their tips. It was tough for her to keep her balance. I found myself tensing up.

“Oh NOOO!” she cried.