Present - Thanksgiving Day.
There are angels and demons at war inside my head, and the demons are winning.
I’m sitting across the table from Grace, the only person who has the power to silence the chaos in my head, and at the same time cause mayhem in my heart. I can’t stop staring at her. Her lips highlighted in deep red lipstick, the way her rich brown skin glows when the soft lighting from the lamp above us hits at the right angle, her curly hair banded at the nape of her neck, displaying a heart-shaped face that makes me question my calling.
I should be heeding the advice of my spiritual director to remove myself from temptation. Instead, I’m wondering if she still tastes and smells like vanilla waffles.
I wonder if this is God’s test of my loyalty to him. How long will my resolve hold before everything falls apart?
I’m home from seminary for Thanksgiving. Grace’s mother, Debra, invited my uncle and me for dinner.
I should have politely refused the invitation and avoided placing myself directly in the path of wickedness, so close to the one person who makes me want to sin ten ways from Sunday. Instead, I accepted, then spent the next few hours alternating between meditation and praying feverishly to God for strength. Then I threw on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt and went for a run, hoping the chilly November weather would help me focus.
By the time we left the rectory, I had steeled myself with resolve and patience and strength. That is, until Debra opened the door and stepped aside, inviting us into her home, and my eyes landed on Grace, standing beside the table with her hands clasped primly in front of her.
She smiled sweetly my way, and it hit me—coming here was a big mistake.
As we eat, conversation flows easily, but in my mind the same words keep playing, crowding my thoughts. I hope my hard-on is not that obvious. God, give me strength to get through this dinner without embarrassing myself.
It’s hard to function when your mind is in turmoil. Hard to breathe when your heart is in your throat.
I’m not sure whether I love her or hate her. I don’t know if it’s myself I should hate for allowing her to occupy my mind, or if I should thank God for giving me the ability to love her so much that I’ve made an altar in my head of the memories we shared.
My gaze strays every so often to Grace. Hers briefly meets mine, sending a jolt of heat—again—straight to my groin before she looks away. Her eyes stay firmly on her plate as she lifts the fork to her mouth.
Oh, God.
Her sin-worthy lips part and close around the forkful of mashed potatoes, and I groan inwardly, picturing that mouth on me.
I quickly drop my gaze to my own plate and subtly shift in my seat, desperate for relief. I tug down my napkin on my lap, hiding the visible bulge in my pants. Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I mutter, “Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, F—”
“You okay?” Luke asks in a low voice.
My eyes fly open and my head makes an awkward jerk meant as a nod. From the corner of my eye, I see him assess me with those knowing eyes of his. Judging by the look he’s giving me, the answers to his curious thoughts are written all over my face for the world to see. He turns away, frowning, and continues chatting with Debra.
The heart is weak, greedy, and reckless. Selfish, my spiritual director advised while staring intently into my eyes during our last session together before I left St. Bernard Seminary for Thanksgiving break. Stay away from temptation. If something or someone leads you to consider sinning or to have impure thoughts, then it is wise to remove yourself from that situation.
The words are clear in my head now, yet, here I am. Unable to remove myself from this situation without looking obvious.
I could drag her to her room.
I could kiss her.
I could—
Stop.
Guilt cuts through my conscience, causing my stomach to twist painfully. I shut my eyes tight again, trying to rid myself of those thoughts.
I don’t even care at this point if I look like the veins in my forehead are about to burst with effort. If I don’t block her out, if I don’t block Grace out, my restraint will snap. When I close my eyes, it’s easier to see the face of my spiritual director staring down at me with such disappointment at my thoughts. It helps. A little bit.
Even though my gaze is on the plate in front of me, I know Grace is watching me innocently from under her lashes. I can feel her eyes on me. But they don’t fool me. There’s nothing innocent about the body beneath that pretty red dress. Everything about it is sinful and dangerous.
And no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget the feel of her skin against mine, both our smells mixed with the distinct smell of sex, it all seems to be imprinted in my very being. Those memories are a part of me. She’s a part of me.
Two months ago, I renewed my pledge to God and myself. I promised not to let myself get easily swayed by memories of Grace. I purged all carnal thoughts from my mind. I was cleansed, and my faith and purpose renewed.
I was at peace, that is, until I found out where I’d be spending Thanksgiving dinner.
I wonder if today will be the day I break my vow.
Ten years old
Sunrays filter through the stained glass, casting shades of color on the walls and floors. Specks of dust surround the light in a mesmerizing dance, and I can’t stop staring, hoping if I stare too hard the rays of sunshine will reach the pew where I’m sitting and pour warmth inside me.
My mother once told me beauty can be found anywhere. All I needed to do was look for it.
I’m searching for it now, trying to find the beauty in my life, in this old church, in anything. But I can’t. Not when I feel cold and empty inside.
Uncle Luke pauses in delivering the homily, his eyes moving to where I’m sitting with my shoulders hunched forward. He’s been darting glances at me since Mass started twenty-five minutes ago. His electric blue eyes, the same as my mother’s, pierce my similar ones. I take in his neatly combed brown hair and clean-shaven jaw. Other than these two things, he’s the spitting image of my mom, down to the small indent in his chin.
He’s trying hard to hold himself together in front of the congregation, but the worry lines bracketing his mouth and the slight furrow of his brows betray him.
He adjusts the white collar around his neck subtly with a finger as if it’s too tight, then looks down at the open Bible in front of him. His gaze meets mine again before moving to the parishioners, then back to me.
His head slants to the side just like Mom’s used to do when she imparted a morsel of advice. It’s awfully familiar, the pain squeezing inside my chest still fresh.
I turn and stare at the windows again to avoid his eyes and dig my mom’s rosary from my pants pocket. The feel of the smooth beads between my fingers soothes me. I can almost hear my mom’s voice, see my dad as he smiles down at her with teasing eyes.
If I could go back in time two months ago before my parents were brutally taken from me, I would.
My gaze is pulled toward the cross on the wall. I can’t breathe, and my chest feels like it’s on fire as anger pushes through the numbing coldness in my veins.
I want to yell at the top of my lungs. Instead, I narrow my eyes at Jesus with his head bowed and arms nailed on either side of the two bars.
I hate you, I whisper angrily inside my head. I hate you. Why didn’t you take me too? Why not me? Why not me?