The woman was slow to find her shoes. When she wiggled into them at last, she moved reluctantly toward the coat rack for her jacket. Her gaze traveled to the wall where the bench used to be, where the candles once were. Finally, I understood her hesitation. "Did you want to light a candle?" I asked her. "I really need to say a prayer." she answered rapidly. This woman, who some might label "disabled", has displayed some of the most genuine faith I've seen. For weeks now, she has come to class, pausing to write a prayer and light a candle. A sensitive soul and avid news watcher, she often needs to pray for an accident victim, storm survivors, or an injured animal that she has heard about. There seems to be no request too large or too small for her. She sees, she hears, she feels, she reacts. Sometimes her prayers are silent, as they are this day when I had moved the candles. She lit up when I showed her their new location, above the fireplace, interspersed with shells, feathers, heart shaped rocks and bamboo. She wrote her words carefully on a slip of paper and folded it into the bowl. She allowed me to help her with the lighter, and together we lit not one, but two candles. "Two!" She enthused. She didn't ask why, but if she had, I would have told her. One candle was for her request, whatever it was. The second was mine. Silently, I asked to learn from the beauty and simplicity of this woman's light. She sees, she hears, she feels, she reacts. She reacts with her heart; not by needing to spring into action, but by admitting her innocence, her powerlessness, her fear, her dreams. She reacts by needing to write the words down, to place them in a bowl, and then to shine a light on them. She has inspired me to re-prioritize my needs when I arrive at work. The first thing I do these days is offer up my prayers. Like hers, they are often for those I know, for those I've read about, for those I love. Some are painful petitions, others are abundant gratitude. All of them make the room and my heart brighter.