Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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--The walk was near silent. Behind us two students informed each other what their day’s consisted of. In front of us, a group of students each walked with their heads down—chasing their shadows. I chased the Chapel’s light. I’ve come to discover that once the sun sets, it radiates from inside. From the highway across the street, it calls to you. The chandeliers that hang inside on the high ceilings play as the North Star. From the dorm buildings, it announces that it’s there if you need it. From any of the campus’ pathways, its kaleidoscope of windows aluminates and draws you into its sanctity.
--Tonight, we’ve come together to pray. And isn’t it ironic that such a tragedy is what must take place for some to seek God? Is it strange that we’ve come together because someone has taken away people who are complete strangers to some of us? Gone…from the world.
--I sit in a pew near the back. Some of the heads in front of me are down—praying already. Some are observing this environment they have never surrounded themselves with. Some are watching the candles burn in front of them. Some are twirling their thin, white vigil candles between their fingers. Ahead of us all stands a tall candle where the fire for ours will derive from. Next to this is a table consumed with dozens of pillar candles already burning. It’s easy to assume what these represent…who these represent.
--The lights are dimmed. The speakers quietly pop when their power switch is flipped. The service begins. The voices are low, the passages are solemn. We learn nothing but sorrow as the story is retold to us. We pray.
--Behind me, a man and woman sing “O Lord, Hear My Prayer” as the candles are being lit one by one. They arrived to the Chapel together and their voices accompany one another. She harmonizes his. It’s a melancholy hymn, but its two verses are sung over and over again. After so many repetitions I hear them slowly begin to hum only clearly singing the words “Lord” and “prayer”. They’d hum. “Oh Lord…” They’d hum. “Lord…” They’d hum. “Lord…my prayer…” The candles were lit. The song was done.
--I heard a psalm and while he read it I watched the flame of a boy sitting in the pew in front of me. The voice read, “Weep with those who weep…” and I watched his candle melt away. I watched the wax fall down its side—as if it was weeping. My candle did not cry, but his wept. Three tears melted on top of one another on this boy’s candle.
Three distinct tears.
--I stood up with the whole of the congregation. “There are 33 candles in front of you. Not 32. But 33.” One by one we learned who belonged to each flame and with each name the bell chimed. My heart grew heaviest after each bell toll. I kept my eyes shut as the sound resonated through the Chapel, but here my tears began to melt on top of one another. Here, I wept with those around me. I listened to the names, the toll that helped lead them into eternity, and to my neighbors’ whimpers.
--We blew our candles out together and walked away. As I stood in line to leave the school a message from our university, I watched those who stayed to pray longer. In the back pews students took moments alone. By the 33 candles, one student stood. The other kneeled. He prayed with his hands palm to palm and his face resting upon them—the way prayer is depicted in pictures. Behind his profile stood the statue of Jesus at the front of the Chapel, his arms spread wide open, welcoming life…celebrating life. Next to me, students embraced one another. This was when I began to cry once again. I wiped away my tears and watched those praying by the candles as they finished. They as well embraced one another, but didn’t let go so quickly. He wrapped his arms around her and without stepping back he again replaced his arms even further around her as if the first time wasn’t strong enough.
--She handed me the pen and I wrote: Vayan con Dios y enontren paz. Signed, V*.
--The walk was near silent. Behind us two students informed each other what their day’s consisted of. In front of us, a group of students each walked with their heads down—chasing their shadows. I chased the Chapel’s light. I’ve come to discover that once the sun sets, it radiates from inside. From the highway across the street, it calls to you. The chandeliers that hang inside on the high ceilings play as the North Star. From the dorm buildings, it announces that it’s there if you need it. From any of the campus’ pathways, its kaleidoscope of windows aluminates and draws you into its sanctity.
--Tonight, we’ve come together to pray. And isn’t it ironic that such a tragedy is what must take place for some to seek God? Is it strange that we’ve come together because someone has taken away people who are complete strangers to some of us? Gone…from the world.
--I sit in a pew near the back. Some of the heads in front of me are down—praying already. Some are observing this environment they have never surrounded themselves with. Some are watching the candles burn in front of them. Some are twirling their thin, white vigil candles between their fingers. Ahead of us all stands a tall candle where the fire for ours will derive from. Next to this is a table consumed with dozens of pillar candles already burning. It’s easy to assume what these represent…who these represent.
--The lights are dimmed. The speakers quietly pop when their power switch is flipped. The service begins. The voices are low, the passages are solemn. We learn nothing but sorrow as the story is retold to us. We pray.
--Behind me, a man and woman sing “O Lord, Hear My Prayer” as the candles are being lit one by one. They arrived to the Chapel together and their voices accompany one another. She harmonizes his. It’s a melancholy hymn, but its two verses are sung over and over again. After so many repetitions I hear them slowly begin to hum only clearly singing the words “Lord” and “prayer”. They’d hum. “Oh Lord…” They’d hum. “Lord…” They’d hum. “Lord…my prayer…” The candles were lit. The song was done.
--I heard a psalm and while he read it I watched the flame of a boy sitting in the pew in front of me. The voice read, “Weep with those who weep…” and I watched his candle melt away. I watched the wax fall down its side—as if it was weeping. My candle did not cry, but his wept. Three tears melted on top of one another on this boy’s candle.
Three distinct tears.
--I stood up with the whole of the congregation. “There are 33 candles in front of you. Not 32. But 33.” One by one we learned who belonged to each flame and with each name the bell chimed. My heart grew heaviest after each bell toll. I kept my eyes shut as the sound resonated through the Chapel, but here my tears began to melt on top of one another. Here, I wept with those around me. I listened to the names, the toll that helped lead them into eternity, and to my neighbors’ whimpers.
--We blew our candles out together and walked away. As I stood in line to leave the school a message from our university, I watched those who stayed to pray longer. In the back pews students took moments alone. By the 33 candles, one student stood. The other kneeled. He prayed with his hands palm to palm and his face resting upon them—the way prayer is depicted in pictures. Behind his profile stood the statue of Jesus at the front of the Chapel, his arms spread wide open, welcoming life…celebrating life. Next to me, students embraced one another. This was when I began to cry once again. I wiped away my tears and watched those praying by the candles as they finished. They as well embraced one another, but didn’t let go so quickly. He wrapped his arms around her and without stepping back he again replaced his arms even further around her as if the first time wasn’t strong enough.
--She handed me the pen and I wrote: Vayan con Dios y enontren paz. Signed, V*.
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