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As the hurricane intensifies, I light every candle the church owns. Fearing evil as much as God, I believe a blood war will flare this evening with my church the nexus. My guardian angel, Daniel, is nowhere to be found. Daniel revealed himself to me as an angel that day in 1957 when my brother Jake drowned out here and the angel has been around me ever since.
“What’s that odor?”
It melds the sweetness of Ben-Gay and stench of burnt wires. My pores draw it in tainting my skin. I stand and walk to the altar where a censer holds hot coals. Spooning incense granules onto the embers causes a gray-white plume to rise. I inhale the smoke letting it surround and caress my face. Blessing the sanctuary and asking for intercession from God comes by rote.
“Is it too late to believe in God?”
“May the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, in whose power and authority we have confidence…” I recite.
“Hocus, pocus, dominocus!”
“Through the prayers and merits of the Blessed Mary ever-virgin, of Saint Michael the Archangel…”
My namesake embodies power and righteousness, but by comparison I may as well be castrati. I talk like I have big balls, but I do not think any man’s balls are big enough when good and evil go to war.
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