Wick-ed

Son of a biscuit! The altar candles go out again. I came to church early to trim the wicks and now they won’t stay lit.

I can hear murmurs from those who have arrived early for the church service. We are Lutherans, so if we’re not early, then we consider ourselves late.

“I don’t think God minds too much if the altar isn’t perfect,” Pastor once reassured me.

It’s not God I’m worried about. It’s Sherri, head of the altar guild.

Sherri has been away from church for most of the pandemic and the other ladies and I have gotten a little more relaxed about the altar. Sherri is back, though, and we’re like school children when the principal walks into the classroom.

“We’ve just been taking turns. Kind of winging it, during the pandemic,” I told her when she returned.

“We have a schedule now,” Sherri informed me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said and backed slowly away.

I’ve already missed one meeting. Sherri had the guild on ladders, dusting the topmost reaches of the altar. She was nice enough about my absence, but I have a feeling I’ve got a black mark by my name now--a heavenly demerit.

And now the flames extinguish almost as soon as I light them. It’s ten minutes to the start of the service. We are Lutherans so if we don’t start on time, then we’re nothing but rogue Methodists.

“Is there a problem?” I look up to see Sherri staring from me to the candles. I worry my bladder won’t hold.

“They won’t stay lit,” I stammer.

Sherry frowns. I try lighting them again and the flame goes out immediately.

“I have never seen this happen before,” Sherry says. I fear a bolt of lightning must have my name on it.

Sherry strides away, returning a moment later with the oil for the candles.

Now it’s five minutes until the service starts. I see Pastor and the choir take their places. We don’t believe in purgatory, but it feels like they might make an exception for a failed altar lady.

“Hand me a candle,” Sherri says. I pass it to her, sweat beading my forehead.

“I checked them. They are filled,” I whine.

Sherry opens the top of the candle and squirts oil on the wick.

“Try it again,” she says.

I put the candle back on the altar and light it once more. It flames and stays lit. Now I know how the Jews felt at the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem.

I quickly hand Sherri the second candle and as I place it on the altar a voice says, “Sixty seconds.”

I scamper off the altar and follow Sherri. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “ The wick didn’t have enough time to soak up the oil.” She pats my back and returns to her seat.

I sink into the pew, my heart still pounding. I look back at Sherri, who winks at me. I’m not sure, but I think I see the faintest shadow of angel wings.