Me and civilization.
Me and her.
The diocese had known exactly what they were doing in sending me here to this lush and rural God’s country. The four walls of Santa Maria’s, for the first time in almost half a decade, were beginning to feel more like a prison that required planning to escape than a refuge and sanctuary for God’s children.
I lit a candle at the base of the small stone window, mesmerized as it began to flicker and dance, channeling another evening in a different rectory, her in my arms, my very heart nestled against hers.
I’d never forget the sweet gift she’d given me in those brief moments so long ago.
But I’d never defile myself in her name again.
I prayed that my love for her would abate, that I would cease to feel the touch of her hand, the scent of winter in her hair, the sound of her sweet giggle on the wind, but my prayers remained unanswered.
I recalled a practice revived among the Jesuit community centuries ago—corporal mortification, a way of getting closer to godliness through suffering. Self-inflicted suffering.
I pulled the worn leather belt from the loops of my trousers, running the tough material through my fingers, the promise of its punishment calling.
Pope John Paul II had believed in daily penance with self-flagellation.
Prickles of anxiety lifted my hackles.
The call to inflict lasting marks on my skin as a reminder of my sin, undeniable.
Just as Jesus carried his wounds for all to see, so I would mine.
