When Mass ended, all the candles in the church were extinguished, save one many-armed candelabra, plunging the congregation into near total darkness. I pinched out the wick of my candle as well, wishing to experience the ritual as they did. The sisters’ songs turned to mournful dirges as the priest recited a story about their Lord being betrayed by his closest friend and handed over to the authorities to be tortured and condemned. One by one, the remaining candles were extinguished, until only a lone flame remained.
The church was silent, the crowd seemingly holding its breath in expectation. I scooted closer to my small window, trying to take in everything with heightened senses.
The clear voice of a young boy rang out from the north, intoning “Kyrie Eleison,” a plea to their God for
