TWENTY-EIGHT
Bastien
“And so James said to the apostles, ‘Is any one among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.’” I breathed the familiar passage in my native tongue, the richly inflected words a pleasant lullaby to my ears.
I turned the page of my hand-scribbled homily as I stood at the lectern, the words swirling around in my mouth like warm drops of honey, bringing so much comfort to my confused soul. I'd spent hours of my time after sunset poring over the pages of my Bible, committing passages to memory in my pathetic attempt at redemption. “After much reading,” I breathed honestly, “even I am reminded that Jesus himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sin and live in triumphant righteousness. By his wounds, you have been healed. We have all been healed already—he welcomes us sick, weak, and stumbling—we need only ask it of ourselves. It's essential we confess our sins to one another—that we pray for one another. The prayer of a righteous person has great power, my friends.”
I scanned the eyes of the small crowd, women fanning themselves with dried banana leaves, the men hunched and pulling at the frayed edges of their baseball caps. This tiny parish and the people who populated it had become a lifeline after all the years of self-inflicted heartache.
Maybe the once-a-week love Padre Juan and Carmelita shared was enough for them. And I decided right then that no longer would I shame myself for my earthy transgressions and biological desires; my very peace required it.
Moving on without Tressa had proven itself nearly unbearable, the charged interaction with Margarita last night only proof that man was meant to love, just as I’d whispered in Tressa’s ear so many ages ago.
Adam and Eve were meant to explore each other, learn, and grow to another level.
“Sons and daughters, please never forget—we are already whole in His eyes. All the strength we need to walk through this life can be found in faith.” My eyes traveled across the quiet crowd, lingering on a form in the corner with long waves of chocolate brown over one shoulder.
A smile that reached my eyes washed across my face as I held up my hand for the sign of the cross. “Peace be with you.”
The murmured reply in Spanish brought me back to my time at the Jesuit seminary and the first few dozen homilies and liturgies I’d given in my young career. My time with the Jesuits had been short but left a lasting impression. Their dedication to education and social issues was unmatched by any other order I’d come across in all of my years practicing my faith. All that goodness rivaled only by the militant order they impressed upon their most dedicated practitioners.
As the parishioners began to file out, I exchanged meaningful nods with each of them as the sun began its slow descent over the mountains.
My palms began to itch for the familiar feeling of the woven ropes and leather belt that left a kiss not soon to be forgotten.
My mind wove back to the brief moments I’d seen the girl with the dark hair hovering in my Mass.
I swallowed, wondering if it could have been her.
If she was still here.
If I was crazy and she was only a mirage.
Carmelita and Santiago followed up the last of the line, warm and open smiles on both of their faces. “Where’s the rest of the family this evening?”
Santiago was twisting the ropes that hung long on my vestments as his mother spoke. “My boys are down sick, so Padre Juan is watching them. Andmi Margarita—” she brushed closer, hand at my elbow “—she went back to Havana. Country life is not for her, she decided.” Carmelita winked. “I’m glad. One less mouth to feed. She’d get bored and cause trouble for me anyway.”
I held back my chuckle, only wishing the best for both of them.
“Come on, Santi,” Carmelita instructed.
The boy gave my leg a quick hug before sprinting down the cobbled stone path that wove to the dusty red road. “See ya, Padre Castaneda!”
“Adios, Santiago!”
His mother caught his hand, setting sun lighting his dark hair like a halo.
I watched them get smaller and smaller until they finally turned the bend in the road and were out of my sight.
With the heavy feeling settling, I spent the next few minutes locking up the small church and readying for morning Mass. The sun was already below the horizon by the time I was shuffling back to my rectory, the before-bed ritual I’d become accustomed to already warming my skin in anticipation.
Locking the door behind me, I paused for a moment at the small window carved into the stone hovel. Shades of navy and obsidian played tricks on my eyes, warm wind whispering on the palm leaves, only a few brave avian souls singing a staccatoed birdsong in the distance. And after a minute, even that grew silent, romance and mystery clinging to the soft breeze.
A small, satisfied grin lifted my lips as I made a mental note to emblazon this moment in my mind.
It felt like I’d already walked a lifetime in the shoes my God had given me for this life, but I appreciated the lessons learned each and every day, even if they were hard wrought.
I closed the thin curtain, still enjoying the way the breeze lifted it to twirl and dance, adding levity to an admittedly stifling room.
