On a frigid December night in 2014, my husband and I pulled into the parking lot of St. James Catholic Church to join a candlelight vigil against gun violence. Parishioners were already gathered on the corner, their candle flames a minor constellation within a universe of traffic lights. I pulled two tapers from my purse, as our friend Kate parked her car near ours. We paraded toward the group, and claiming spots against a wall, blended into the background.
The national news had been filled with stories about unarmed black boys and men killed by police, while the local news had been decrying the frequency of homicides in city neighborhoods.
Setting aside my opinions about twenty-first century USA, I held a candle.
We were only a few, our presence on that sidewalk brief, but I felt consoled with my hands folded in prayer around a taper. Drivers tapped their horns; some waved, and the gestures brought us together in sorrow and united us in our exhaustion from grieving. A gust sneaked up my coat sleeve. I shivered. It was a night to mourn.
The national news had been filled with stories about unarmed black boys and men killed by police, while the local news had been decrying the frequency of homicides in city neighborhoods.
Setting aside my opinions about twenty-first century USA, I held a candle.
We were only a few, our presence on that sidewalk brief, but I felt consoled with my hands folded in prayer around a taper. Drivers tapped their horns; some waved, and the gestures brought us together in sorrow and united us in our exhaustion from grieving. A gust sneaked up my coat sleeve. I shivered. It was a night to mourn.