Song for a Vanilla Cynic

Her wick had again gone out. Quietly Nan re-lit it once more, grabbed her hand, and led her back to the candles. But now Janie’s hands were clutched so tightly and so far up the torch that it was impossible for her to reach the last candle. Nan moved her hands down the length of the torch gently and encouraged her to try again. The torch wobbled and bobbed, wavered and flailed, and Morty played the prelude over and over.

I was absolutely riveted. I watched and cheered silently for Janie, as she tried with all her might to light the highest candle. I felt the silent encouragement of every person in that church; it was palpable. At last, wick landed on wick, and the final candle was lit. “I did it!” she yelled to us, with pure joy in her voice and pure sunshine in her face. She had indeed. But in some way we all had, and that’s when I remembered why church-people are church-people in the first place—why they get up so horribly early and insist on being there every single Sunday, despite what the world and vanilla cynics like me think. They do it for each other. Something I had pushed away came sweetly back that morning. It has never left.

When I got up for my solo at last and sang, “And I will raise you up on eagles’ wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of my hand,” I sang to Janie—but the inspiration had came from Janie, because that’s what she’d given us before church had even officially begun that morning. And it passed the lump in my throat just fine.