“To bear one another's burdens is to fulfill the law of Christ.”His voice always lowered an octave when he quoted scripture, and damn if I didn’t feel every word between my thighs.
“No offense, but Jesus didn’t grow up in North Philly.”
The joke didn’t land like I’d hoped, and the sympathy lacing his irises made my heart sink. “I’m not sure what it’s like in Cuba, but where I come from, family dinners and bedtime stories aren’t really a thing. I watched my mom’s best friend overdose on our couch. Asking my mom for a hug after the paramedics cleared out didn’t really feel like the right time.”
“Is there ever?” His head ticked to one side, firelight highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, dark stubble more pronounced at the end of the day.
“A right time? Isn’t timing everything? If there’s never a right time, then why are people always saying it’s all about timing?”
“Nice deflection, but I’ll indulge you.” He leaned a little closer, the brush of his shoulder against mine sending a thrill of sparks through me. “Timing may be man-made, but the universe is always orchestrating in your highest interest. Wouldn’t you say it’s fortunate timing that a position opened up at St. Michael’s for the first time in years right after you showed up?”
“Is it fortunate you were here and felt bad enough for the poor college dropout that you created a position for me? Yes. But that wasn’t God or timing. That was your generosity.”
His dark eyes held mine as he worked my words over. “And I couldn’t have done it without God and timing on my side. If you’d been here six months before, I wouldn’t have been able to make the day care work. Timing.”
“Well…” I smirked, bringing our conversation back full circle. “I just don’t think the timing is right, then.”
Bastien’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe by Sunday, you’ll find the timing right.”
I thought of Father Bastien ducking into the confessional as he did most Sundays, listening to the secrets of all of St. Michael’s parishioners.
I couldn’t imagine the weight he must carry on his broad shoulders, listening wholeheartedly to every wayward sin of a community. His level of selflessness in service to his God was inspiring.
Even if I wasn’t a believer, I’d never committed to anything as fully as Bastien committed to his faith.
“I almost went last Sunday. Truly.” I didn’t know why it was so important that he understand it wasn’t for lack of wanting to go in. “My body just slides into shutdown mode when I think about reliving…”
“Confession is not a means to relive. Confession is absolution. A washing away of the lingering subconscious swords left behind.”
“Swords, huh?” I held his gaze, taking my turn to roll his words over in my mind.
“When we can’t express our deepest fears, they lodge like invisible daggers in our spine.”
“Poetic,” I breathed, desperate to veer away from this topic of conversation.
I guess the thing about accepting the job at St. Michael’s was that it came with strings attached. Spiritual ones. Father Bastien might be young as far as holy men went, but he still insisted on holding your hand to the fire.
I’d been dodging Bastien’s gentle probing into my past for weeks, but something in the way he exuded empathy and understanding left me softening.
It also left me thinking.
A lot.
Entirely too much for my liking.
I’d been running in fast-forward for so many years, chasing a dream, fleeing from reality, I’d never really stopped to think about what truly motivated me. Why I made a habit of surrounding myself with the misfits and broken toys.
Was Bastien right? Was I choosing to be broken?
“Is there something you can hold on to? A memento from the past or…?”
“There’s nothing from my past worth holding on to. Not a single thing.”
“What calms you, then? What brings you peace?”
I swallowed. “I guess candlelight, soft music, a bath…”
“That sounds like a first date more than a spiritual practice.”
