Prologue
Father Roman
Five years ago
* * *
The church is finally quiet. In fact, it’s so silent, I don’t want to leave. It’s been a long month of events, dinners, nativity plays for the children, and Christmas parties for the congregation. And I love it. That’s why I became ordained and devoted myself to the church—to be a part of it all.
But for right now, I’m going to enjoy this, the church at its most peaceful.
This was my first official Advent at the church. I’m doing something right, helping others and getting closer to God. That’s what my mother wanted, and I promised her before she passed that that would be my purpose. Help others. Find God. Live in peace.
As I stand at the altar somewhere after one in the morning, making it Christmas day, I reflect on how much I’ve accomplished, on how gratifying it feels to fulfill my mother’s dying wish.
It feels good. It does.
But...something is missing.
I stand there for so long, dwelling on this emptiness and talking to God, my back aches, then finally decide I’m just too tired to understand anything tonight.
Stowing away the last of the candles and programs left out from Midnight Mass, I freeze when I hear the door to the church open. I’m the only priest at the church, and I just sent the volunteers home, so I say a silent prayer that it’s not someone wanting to cause trouble.
Quickly moving toward the chapel to remain unseen in order to see who it is before they see me, I stop in my tracks when I take in the young woman tiptoeing silently toward the altar. She doesn’t see me yet, so I stare at her for a moment. She’s wearing pajamas, loose-fitting pants and an oversized sweatshirt. There are tattered sneakers on her feet that look about five sizes too big. And as she approaches the candles and dim light, I notice the tear tracks across her makeup-stained face.
She can’t be more than fifteen, and her expression shows pain and grief.. I watch her for a bit longer, eager to see if she’s here to try and steal something—not that there is anything valuable to take. tThen, she drops into the front pew and begins to cry silently into the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She’s definitely not here to steal—she’s here for safety or rather, sanctuary.
God sent her to me.
Stepping out into the light, I let my footsteps announce my presence, watching her flinch and hearing her gasp when she spots me coming closer.
I pause and hold up my hands, trying to ease her fears.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“I—I’m sorry. I just...I thought—” She stutters as she wipes her nose with her sleeve.
“You don’t need to worry. You’re welcome here.”
Her shoulders soften. “I am?”
“Always.” I raise a hand toward the altar.
Her tear-soaked cheeks lift into a gentle smile, and I find my eyes glued to her. I can’t seem to look away from the fullness of her lashes or the pink patches of skin around her nose from crying. She is a beautiful girl, so innocent and pure.
Then my gaze falls to her lips and I notice the split mark with dried blood at the corner, and something inside of me hardens with anger..
“Are you hurt?” I ask, my voice darker and lower than normal.
Her fingers reach to touch her lip and her face twists up in agony as the tears start to fall again.
“I’m fine.”
I squeeze my hands into fists. “Can I bring you some water and something to eat?”
She hesitates before swallowing and curling in on herself. “Yes, please.”
I return a few minutes later from the kitchen with a bottle of water and three packages of Ritz crackers. Her delicate fingers twist open the bottle. I take a seat next to her and notice the way she doesn't shy away from me. Instead, she gazes up at me with eyes full of wonder.
“Do you work here?” she asks.
I lean against the back of the seat and prop my feet up on the pew in front of us, the same way she is doing.
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you a priest?”
“Mm-hm.”
“You don’t look like a priest,” she responds, and I can’t help but laugh. She’s not wrong. I’m almost thirty, and she’s probably picturing the Pope when she imagines what a priest should be.
“I get that a lot.”
“I’ve never been to church before,” she whispers, as if it’s a confession. “I just heard that you could come here whenever you want and they can’t turn you away.”
“God would never turn you away,” I reply. I hate that I just said that. It feels forced and cheesy, and not right for this tender moment. “Even if we could, why would we want to?”
She nods, biting her lip.
Then I add, “What is your name?”
“Cora,” she replies in a breathy high-pitched voice. “I’m fifteen.”
“I’m Father Roman.” I put my hand out with an easy smile, and she places her fingers against mine with slight hesitation. Again, I marvel at how perfect she is, so sweet and lovely.
After pulling away, she opens her crackers and eats them noisily while we stare at the dimly lit altar.
“These are good,” she mumbles with her mouth full. When she offers me one, I take it so she doesn’t have to eat alone. A sudden wave of longing cascades over me. I want to feed her as much as I can. Keep her warm and safe. I want to give her everything—clothes, books, water, whatever she needs. It’s urgent and powerful, like nothing I’ve felt before.
Is this what my mother was talking about? Is this what I’ve been missing?
“Do you need anything else, Cora? Are you safe at home?”
“Um,” she mutters, curling her perfectly white blonde hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I’m fine. It was a bad day, but there are good days.”
Not enough. She should have nothing but good days.
For the next hour, we talk—well, mostly, she talks and I listen. She tells me about all of her favorite things: her favorite books, TV shows, and movies. She explains her love of winter over summer. And how she went to Disneyland last summer and saw one of the characters take his costume head off, which is apparently a pretty big deal. She laughs, and so I laugh until the once-silent church is filled with life and warmth.
She finishes her crackers and water, and I take the trash from her hands.
“I should go.”
Normally, I’d offer to pray or something, but I’m caught off guard. It’s like a tiny angel has just landed in my church in the middle of the night, and I’ve forgotten that I’m even a priest.
“Will you come back? So I know you’re safe.”
Standing up, she stares at the altar again, and even though she’s not smiling, there’s warmth on her face. So much better than the sob-stricken expression she wore when I found her.
“I like it here. It’s so peaceful.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“What do you do here?” My heart slams against my chest with emotion for this girl.
“We, uh...well, we worship. We pray. We come together and we help each other.”
She twists up her mouth as if she’s contemplating it. “And I can come back whenever I want?”