The light of God

two pre-teen pals screw up, but make it right

The Light of God

By

Robert Reams

"Billy, stop screwin' around man, we're in church!"

"Oh the holy man, 'we're in church'!" Folding his hands in mock imitation of prayer and wriggling his hips in a 'girlie' fashion.

The two boys, (Billy, twelve and Mark, eleven) move, for the most part, in awed silence around the sacristy and altar. Their task, altar boy, is not to be taken lightly. At Immaculate Conception Parish, many are called but few are chosen, and these two are so trusted they have been left without adult guidance to finish the work, clean up and lock up after a Saturday wedding. They move around the altar, each remembering to genuflect and cross himself each time he passes the tabernacle, the locked golden box which holds the consecrated Host, the body of Christ. Back and forth they move, in a kind of choreographed dance, their bodies and minds cojoined in that special way that only preteen "buddies" can be. In a few moments more, they will be ordinary boys on an ordinary Saturday afternoon, but for the moment they are Altar Boys, specially dedicated, specially chosen from among their peers to perform Christ's work. Even Billy, who can make a joke of anything, moves with some degree of reverence.

He is dark and bulky, tall for his age and deeply masculine. Mark is slight, androgynous, light toned, short, red headed and freckled. As is often the case, these two physical opposites are fast friends, good buddies from' birth to earth' and 'womb to tomb'.

In the middle of the altar area, a tall thick white candle burns in an ornate brass holder about six feet high. This is the Pascal Lamp, signifying the presence of Christ, of God in the church at Easter time. One of the boys' tasks is to make sure that melting wax from this huge candle does not remain on the marble floor.

Mark is bent to this task, scraping wax from the black marble floor behind the altar rail. For this task he uses his Official Boy Scout Pocket Knife. Scraping the shards of wax into a pile, which he will then slide into his small hand and carry to the back to dump in the trash.

"Hey Mark," Billy calls from the behind the curtain which separates the sacristy from the altar area, where he is carefully washing the cruets used to present the water and wine for Communion, prior to stowing them in the safe.

Mark starts to rise," SSSH, " he shout-whispers. "Ow!" His head strikes the round brass platter sticking out above his head, a sort of Patten incorporated into the brass candle holder. The entire structure teeters, totters. "Oh crap!", cries Mark. The huge candle falls.

Billy, coming thru the curtain to see what the "ow" is about, stands frozen, mouth open.

Mark lunges for the candle, forms a cradle of his arms and catches it, preventing it from shattering to pieces on the hard black marble

"Good going," Billy calls, "Nice catch!"

But Mark's face is a mask of horror. "Oh God, oh my God, oh jeez,"

"What, what? What's wrong?"

With shaking hands Mark replaces the candle in its holder, managing its heft with both arms. Looking back and forth from his best friend to the candle, he gapes, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

Billy comes over. "What the heck is wrong?"

"D. . . d. . . d. . . don't you see?"

"What, what, I don't see nuthin'?"

"The . . . the . . . . the . . . the flame is out!"

"Yeah, so?"

"Whadya mean 'so' I just I. . . .I. . . It means God, Christ is gone from the church! Remember Father Paul said the candle must always be kept lit. Don't you see what we've done?"

"We? What you mean 'we' white man?" As always Billy is laughing. Billy's humor is legendary.

"Cumon man quit messing around. We gotta get this candle lit back up. Don't ya see, I chased God outta the church."

"Well why donja just light it back up again?"

"Gosh do ya think? I mean, maybe it has to be a priest that lights it or somethin?"

"So okay so we'll just go over to the rectory, knock on the door and tell Father Paul to run on over and fire it up!"

"Jeez, man, we, I, we can't do that. Don't ya see, he'll just think we was messin' around and knocked it out. "What am I gonna do? Hey! There's matches in the safe, go get 'em!"

"Sorry good buddy, I just shut and locked the safe."

"Oh, oh jeez. "Cumon, let's go!"

"Go? Go where."

"We gotta go get some matches and get this thing lit back up before anyone sees."

"I don't see the big deal here, it's only a candle."

But Mark's belief is not so shallow, his demeanor not so worldly. "Now look, Billy, I gotta do this thing, donja see, it's important. We, er. . . I put out the light and sent God out of the church. I. . . I. . . I gotta make it right donja see? Now are you gonna help me, be with me on this or not?"

"Well, sure, good buddy, course I am! You an' me, you know that."

"Well then we gotta go right now, over to Sittler's and get us some matches and get back here and light this up so God can come back in the church."

"Ya really think, I mean jeez, ya think God has left just cuz the candle went out?"

"Well I 'member Father Paul, he, he said, the candle must not go out. Besides I can feel it."

"Feel it, feel what?"

"Can't ya feel it? It's, I don't know, kinda, kinda cold or sumthin'. I can feel it, God is gone!"

"Oh real. . . (Billy looks around) ly? " Ooh Jeeeez, I. . . Oh man. I feel it too! "I'm gettin' outta here."

"D. . . D. . . d. . . don't you leave me now, Billy Cramer, or you ain't my best buddy no more."

"Well what're we gonna do?"

"Like I said, we gotta go get us some matches and light the candle again, then maybe say a prayer er sumthin', then get the heck outta here."

"All right, let's go."

The two boys back up slowly, stopping to genuflect, easing out thru the curtain, then running headlong. Mark looks around, finds a large rock, and props the door open a crack, guaranteeing their reentry.

Mark's bike, Midnight" sits resting in the bike rack, waiting, looking as usual, flat black, sleek and all but invisible in the growing darkness. Billy's once glorious 'Silver Phaeton' lies on its side, one pedal, all the rubber worn off, jammed in the dirt.

In moments they are flying down Grant's hill. Rounding the curve at the bottom, doin about twenty-five, both bikes skid, back ends almost coming clear around, but both recover for the long, long pedal up Grand Avenue. Ignoring the traffic light there, they zip to the right, fly for two blocks more, blow the stop sign at second, and skid up to Sittler's grocers. Even under this stress, Mark remembers to carefully engage Midnight's kick stand, while Billy's bike drops, clanging, to the pavement.

Inside, the two boys stand before the counter, panting. Mrs. Sittler, who seems (in the eyes of the two preadolescents), upwards of about 250 years old, but is actually a fifty-three year old woman with a son in Korea, smiles, but behind her eyes there is suspicion. 

Trying to be cool and adult, Billy says, "Hi mizzezz Sitler."

"Hello William. What can I do for you today? Some Likumaid, perhaps?"

"Uh. Not right now, thank you very much mizzezz Sittler, we just will have a book of matches please."

"Why Mark Hunter, what in the world would you need matches for? What devilment are you two up to?"

"Well, ma'am, we uh, uh, er. "Weneedemfora BoyScout project!"

"Yeah", Billy says emphatically, " that's right, Scouts!"

"Well then I think you boys need to have Charlie Bainbridge, the scoutmaster, come in and get them for you. You know I can't give you boys matches!"

"But Ma'am, Mark pleads, we really need 'em."

The look on Mrs. Sittler's face is sweet but firm. Gibralter could not look firmer.

The cohorts in sacrilege look back and forth at one another. Billy shrugs, eyebrows rising, using his eyes to say: 'tell her the real reason we want them."

Mark's face sets, lips tight, answering in the negative.

Outside the store they meet Harry, Tommy Strong's eighteen-year-old brother, swaggering along, curl down his forehead, tee shirt sleeve rolled around a pack of Marlboros ; a poor James Dean imitation

"Hi Harry," Billy says. Kin we talk to you for a sec?"

"What you two little twerps want?"

Both boys speak at once. "Well we need a booka matches." Starting over. " Look Harry, I'll give ya a dollar if you will get us a pack of matches."

"Yeah sure, just what I need, you two little creeps smokin', gettin', caught and than ya tellin' yer mas that I give ya da matches. For all I know the two of ya little creeps could burn sumthin' down, then it'd be my fault. Sorry, kiddies, no dice." He brushes past them into the store.

The two friends stand conspiring, heads close, breaths mingling in the early spring air, desperate.

"What're we gonna do?"

"I dunno."

"We could go to my house and get some?"

"That's fifteen blocks. We gotta get back there faster than that!"

Just as desperation is about to overcome the pair, Mr. Sittler swoops up in his huge black Galaxie 500 convertible, parks at the curb, and hops out, moving toward the front door of his store.

Emboldened by desperation, Billy jumps in front of the old man, starts talking about a hundred miles a minute. "Uh, Mr. Sittler, I, uh, we, that is, need a match, a booka matches, like right away and I know you probably ain't s'posed to give 'em to me and I can't tell ya what I need 'em for but, . . . Please!"

"Yes please Sir," Mark steps up, putting on his best 'good mannered little boy' grin.

"What do you boys want with matches?" Mr. Sittler asks, feigning innocence. Leaning toward the boys conspiratorily, he asks, "Got firecrackers? Gonna blow up a frog? Or maybe send a model boat to the bottom of the creek? Huh?"

"No sir, it's nothin' like that", both boys shout in unison.

Finally it dawns on Mark that the old man wants to help them."Well, er, uh. . . it is kinda secret."

"Ya see we can't really tell ya. But we really need 'em." Mark pipes up.

"Yes sir please." says Billy. Even he now stresses the importance of getting that match, accomplishing their holy crusade.

Mark, actually the more clever of the two, now sees a possible route to victory. Sidling up close to the old man, he almost whispers, "See, uh, sir, it doesn't seem right that you should know about it. Ya see, that way no one can say later that you knew about er, you know, er, anything that might, uh, happen . You know!"

Chuckling, feeling somehow part of a youthful conspiracy, the corner store owner digs in his pocket and comes up with a half-used pack of matches, emblazoned with the name of his store, Sittlers' Grocers in gold upon a jet black background.

Billy snatches the cardboard pack from the startled Mr. Sittler's hands and the two boys are half way to their bikes before Mark shouts, "Thanks Mr. Sittler, thanks a lot!"

Back at the church, in the growing darkness, the two boys genuflect in the center, then make their way silently and reverently to the altar. They relight the candle, one lad carefully tilting the whole structure the other plying the match.

"Cumon, let's go," Billy says.

"Just a minute," replies Mark.

Mark kneels and waves his hand at Billy. "Cumon, we gotta say a prayer er sumthin."

Billy Shakes his head, looks toward the altar and intones, Dear god, please help my best buddy Mark. He's retarded! " Now let's go!"

Mark flashes Billy a look that says: "I ain't puttin up with none of your stuff right now, I gotta do this right!", closes his eyes for a moment and recites more or less piously, " Oh Lord God ..uh....Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, we are sorry for everything. Please forgive us and come back to the church. Amen?" He makes the sign of the cross and rises.

Suddenly both boys freeze, holding their breath. There is a noise from the back. Someone is unlocking the sacristy door. Under the curtain which hides the sacristy from the altar area they can see the bottom of a black cassock. They barely make it to the alcove on the other side, panting as they hide their small frames behind a huge statue of The Blessed Virgin standing on a snake on top of a globe.

Father Loftus enters the altar area, genuflects in the middle and crosses himself. Standing before the huge candle and shaking his head, he mutters to himself: "These Pascal Candles sure are getting skimpy, not like they used to be,” he murmurs, thinking out loud,. “This one doesn't look like it is going to make it through Ascension Thursday, let lone the rest of the year." He tilts the tall candle toward himself a few inches, dripping a few drops of wax onto the shining marble floor, moistens his thumb and forefinger and pinches out 'The Light of God'. There!" he says to himself, “better save as much as we can!" He genuflects once more, crosses himself and goes out the way he came.