Let There Be Light

Every Sunday at mass, the sun would

stream through one of the stained-glass

windows and a beam of light would

shine down on me and only me no

matter which pew we were sitting in.

It made me believe that I was holy, that

God cared about me. It was a wonderful

balm to balance the despicable emotional

abuse my grandmother doled out daily.

She never went to mass. I was convinced

she would melt like that witch with the

flying monkeys if she ever stepped through

the church doors. She’s gone now. I no

longer attend mass or participate in any

organized religion or organized anything

for that matter. But I can still feel God’s

fingers holding my shoulders steady.