At that age, I’d never much resonated with the idea of the Father and the Son, but the sense of the Holy Spirit—some inherent godliness that thrived like a living, breathing soul in the world around us—that feeling connected me to this holy space. And Father Martin was the father I’d never had, even if I had only seen him a few times a week. His calming source of wisdom and patience was like a beacon to a child with an erratic parent at home.
I sifted through a few more photos, catching sight of a church picnic—Fourth of July, from the look of the decorations—Father Martin surrounded by a table full of laughing guests. Family.
St. Michael’s had always been my family.
In fact, if I thought back hard enough, I thought I could remember that very picnic, or at least one just like it.
Fourth of July had been on a Saturday that year, and while the smell of barbecue and burgers filled the air, my stomach was rumbling away on the battered old couch at home.
I glanced up at the clock, my eight-year-old mind struggling to remember how to read the numbers.
It must have been past dinnertime, my anger at not being fed all day while Mom sat upstairs in her bedroom, door locked and giggling furiously on the phone with some unknown man, finally reaching its boiling point.
I shot out of the small living room and took off down the block, headed for a place I often found myself on the weekends when my tummy was rumbling and Mom seemed none the wiser of my presence.
Following the smell of outdoor grills, I’d walked the few blocks to St. Michael’s on fevered steps, heading straight for the picnic table of food, burgers and hot dogs and pasta salads and delicious Jell-O concoctions. One of the elderly women behind the table smiled deeply, passing me a paper plate which I loaded so heavy, it’d nearly collapsed under its own weight.
I’d gorged myself more than I ever had, and she’d only piled the potato salad higher when I’d returned for a second round. Father Martin had found his way to me again that day, stopping to sit beside me, shoulder to shoulder for a few minutes.
My belly full, smile crawling over my face, I remembered hearing the first pop of fireworks starting and leaning my tired head on Father Martin’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed just when the loud shrieks of a madwoman woke me from the newfound peace.
“Tressa!” my mother shrilled again, her Puerto Rican accent more pronounced when it was thick with anger.
“I’d better go,” I mumbled, shuffling away from Father and into the arms of my trembling mother.
She gripped my shoulders tightly, forcing me into her body and seething into my ear, “Why do you do this to me,bomboncita? I tell you not to come here. Over and over, I tell you. When will you listen?”
“I was hungry,” I whispered, shame coating my cheeks in crimson.
Father Martin’s soft hand landed on my mother’s shoulder then, his warm voice flowing through me, calming me just like his presence always did. “St. Michael’s welcomes all of God’s lambs.”
“She’s not God’s lamb. She’s not yours either. She’s my daughter.” My mother’s anger caused her to tighten her hold on me with every passing word she spoke. I nearly winced under the pressure before she spun, catching my hand in hers, and dragging me home, fresh dew coating my bare feet.
I picked the gravel out from my toes when I got home, tummy full and a sense of peace enveloping my tiny body for the first time in too long. Even then, my mother’s fury was worth the full belly and sense of contentment it’d brought me.
Tears pushed at my eyelids, and I wiped them away, forcing a sense of gratitude through my body as I remembered all the times after that St. Michael’s had been there for me. Maybe I could even ask Bastien if there was a way to find out where Father Martin had gone after he’d left Philadelphia. Or if he was even still alive. I briefly thought of sending him a letter, thanking him for his always welcoming presence.
It was the countless moments like those that peppered my childhood and gave me the desire to help kids and families in need, some small way of giving back. The fact that I’d found myself in a church doing it was a twist I wouldn’t have predicted, but being around the deep sense of spirituality felt comforting.
Felt like something I’d been missing.
A flash of inspiration hit me then, the desire to organize some events to bring more of the community back to the doorsteps of St. Michael’s. A grin lit my face as I grabbed a stack of a few photos and the album containing the pictures of Bastien at seminary and sped down the creaky steps. I reached the bottom and collided with Bastien’sstone chest, ten times more fortified than the walls of Jericho, and just as unconquerable.
I nearly lost my breath, choking on my tongue for a moment as all thoughts tumbled out of my head in his presence.
“Everything okay?” Bastien’s broad hands spread the width of my shoulders, consuming me with the need to feel him closer.
I shook my head, confused thoughts shuffling through a broken playlist as I searched for something appropriate to say as I dropped my burden on the desk.
“Tressa?” He ducked, melted-chocolate eyes catching mine and hanging there.
Suspended.
“Yeah?”
He sucked in a quick breath, that same rebel grin from the picture cocking one side of his mouth. “Lost your thought?”
I squeezed my eyes closed, attempting to force the influence of him out of my mind. “Lost my sanity is more like it.”
