I can see he’s moved by the rich and intricate details of the interior, and I wonder if he’s ever been inside any church before, let alone one like this.
“I thought I was meeting you at the house. What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“I got here earlier than I expected. You weren’t at the house, so I walked over and parked by the plaza. I was waiting for you to come out. Carmen saw me and said you were in here. Said it was okay for me to come inside. So, here I am.”
“Oh.”
My eyes travel over him. He’s not wearing his cut, just a faded denim shirt and jeans. He’s more sunburned than he was the last time I saw him, and I’m sure that’s from all the miles on the road he’s spent these last two weeks. It makes the creases around his eyes stand out. Somehow, it’s even more attractive. So much has happened since we last saw each other, and I’ve missed him terribly.
If we weren’t in the sanctuary, I’d be in his embrace by now, and we’d be kissing. After so long apart, it’s all I can think about, and it makes the anticipation that much sharper.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No, of course not,” I whisper, licking my lips. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.” He searches my face, and perhaps he sees the worry lines. I’ve had enough sleepless nights lately.
“Not here.” I rise to my feet, preparing to leave, but he puts a hand on my arm.
“Are you finished praying? I didn’t mean to rush you.”
“It’s fine. I was about to leave when you walked in.”
We exit the pew, and he threads his fingers with mine. It’s the only touch we’ve shared in weeks, and our eyes connect. A flutter starts in my belly, and I smile, looking away.
In the vestibule, Blue gestures to the wall on our left where a display of red votive candles burns.
“What’s the deal with the candles?”
“It’s where you can light a candle and say a prayer for something, like a sick relative, a job interview, or in memory of someone who has died, and to pray for their soul. The flame signifies your prayer ascending to God, and it represents Jesus, the ‘Light of the World,’ and your own prayer as a small part of His divine light.”
At my explanation, he smiles. “You know a lot about this stuff. I knew you were religious, but I guess I didn’t realize how important this part of your life is.”
“Is that bad?”
“Of course not. This helps me understand you better.” He looks at the candles. “Can I light one?”
“Of course.”
“How do I do it?”
I lead him to the votive stand and the supply of candles, handing him one. “It’s customary to offer a small donation to cover the cost of the candles.
He pulls a crumpled dollar bill from his hip pocket. “This is all the cash I have on me.”
“That’s fine.”
He slips it into the slot of the wooden donation box.
“Now you quietly say a prayer, place the candle in an empty votive and light it.”
I watch him stare at the painting of the Virgin Mary on the wall above it, then light his candle.
“Do I leave it burning?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s a symbol of your ongoing prayer. The burning candle keeps your prayer present even after you've left the church.”
We walk outside, and I look over at him. “Was that your first time in a church? What did you think?”
