I once lit a candle in a church for someone I lost long ago. I don't believe; I'm not even marginally agnostic. I am, in fact, soundly bereft of faith. But I was in a special place, and I knew how moved my beloved would have been, standing there in his modest suit, his fedora in hand, an expression of pain and respect and grace on his lined face. I took a candle and placed a dollar on the plate, and I lit the candle with fat, copious tears in my eyes, on his behalf, for the thousands that died mere yards away.
Saint Paul's Chapel lives on.
So does my love for him.