by James Valvis

Big Alabama gets the idea people need prayers, so one August morning we walk to St. Paul's. My sister's wearing her Led Zeppelin jean jacket and therefore might as well have ‘my sweet Satan’ printed on it, since that's apparently what it says when you play their records backwards, but nobody believes more firmly in Christ than Big Alabama. She has a faith I never will, and this is why she holds a list of people who need prayers, a list she's worked on all summer long.

I look at the page and can't believe all the names, everyone from our grandmother to our gay neighbour. It's a mile long, a telephone directory of intercession requests, and she wants to light a candle for every person.

I tell her you have to pay money to light candles. There's a slot for donations and you can't just set fire to candles without giving something and we haven't got anything, not even pennies.

But Big Alabama waves me off and before long we're in church passing the stations of the cross, heading for the candles that flicker beautifully under the stained glass windows and painted ceiling.

The church is nearly empty this early Tuesday, just two ladies kneeling in the distant pews.

Big Alabama lifts a stick, lights it, starts reciting names she's memorised from the list: Mrs. Crenshaw, who has migraines; Kathy Scanlon, who loves Artie who loves someone else; Lisa Pizza, who's depressed.

It seems like everyone we've ever known is on the list and Big Alabama needs to light every candle there. She's going to save the world by setting fire to wax.

My sister finishes one lighting stick, starts another.

It's then that Father John sees what we're doing and yells at us to stop destroying church property.

I start moving toward the exit but Big Alabama doesn't, choosing instead to say names faster.

Eddie, who cries in his car; Yellanore, who hates the whole world; Missy, who pees her bed at night.

The stick glows like the gnarled finger of Lucifer, lighting one candle after another after another.

As Father John rushes toward us, I grab my sister by the back of her jacket and pull her to the door.

Big Alabama is still lighting candles, naming names. Aunt Pat, who has corns; Uncle Richie, who drinks; Billy Rusch, who lies.

Finally she turns and we scamper for the big doors.

A burst of bright daylight and then we are running, back on the street with the other sinners of summer.

Behind us, the priest shakes his fist and damns us to hell.