Unafraid – Novella Four - 5. Part 6: Dona Nobis Pacem

Part 6: Dona Nobis Pacem

In my head I tally 22 sets of Hail Marys, and Our Fathers, and in my heart, I still long for the descent of the Holy Spirit to absolve me; a feeling like I used to get, so I press on.

'Our Father…'

I overcame my fear of Gay people a few years back, thanks to Greg and Joey, who are great guys, and who are probably just as regular as any Gay person. All the generous and liberal thoughts I could come up with and feel okay about them in my head were called into question when I figured out that I was 'that way' too. Now, my heart is confused, and my brain aches as well. I guess I just need to accept myself the way I accept them, but…nobody is around to help me do it. No one is around that I can feel completely safe with, so it's hard.

In the filtered light from the vestry door, I catch a shadow pull away. It is Father Strathmore, down to his black shirt and trousers now, and I suppose he is checking up on me. He wants to ensure I know he is watching, watching to safeguard that I am suffering through the extra-heavy penance he dolled out.

'Hail Mary…'

As he moves away, the freed light of the vestry strikes the angled wall to the side of the high altar. Shards of reddened light streak up the island with its column, and intensify the red drops of blood from the lamb's breast. But, I blink.

Unaccountably the same moody light heightens a feature I had overlooked before.

Over the lambs' heads are an opposing pair of white doves. The vestry light, far from obscuring their pure whiteness in blood color, seems to shed a soft blue stillness on them. They fly above His bleeding body in detachment, and in pace.

Like a dove with her olive branch, I realize maybe there was something useful in my meeting with Sister Jodie this morning.

˚˚˚˚˚

I knocked on the open door. I heard a "Yes," then went down the short hallway of my principal's office, thinking maybe this too was a mistake.

I got to the opening where I could see her at her desk, and she could see who I was.

"Simon?" She shot a pettish glance at her watch. "Don’t you have to get ready for Confession this morning?"

"Yes, Sister. I do. But, I was…"

My pause made her quip: "Yes?" But she soon softened. "Sit down. You want to talk?"

I nodded, sat and then didn’t know where to begin.

"How are you finding your school work?"

"Um, good."

"Miss Skalicky tells me you are excelling in Reading Class."

I perked up. "Yes. I love the stories, and how they make me think of new stuff, and the way other people feel."

Sister Jodie appeared to enjoy my enthusiasm. "Good, and I'd say you are mature enough now, Simon, to start thinking of stories as literature. No one who can touch his or her fellow humans' heart through a tale can be considered ever truly dead."

"Schoolwork is not on my mind, Sister."

She sighed, and folded her hands on her desk. The light from the window behind her again edged out the folds of her habit in a faint halo. "Then, what? You can tell me."

"I don’t…I am uncomfortable with face-to-face Confession."

"Why..?"

I shrugged.

She was bit peeved. "Well, Simon. We can't exactly 'talk' if you don’t have anything to say."

Hesitatingly, I asked, "Did Sister Tatiana tell you what she suspected is 'wrong' with me?"

Sister Jodie pulled back her hands, along with her torso. Her glasses momentarily glinted a blankness back to me. She spoke resolutely, "There is nothing wrong with you, Simon. Is that what's been on your mind?"

"Not exactly."

"Then, what?"

"It's just – it's hard. Nothing about this year has been easy." I don’t want to cry about it – boys my age shouldn't cry – so I sniffle up, and stiffen my spine against the curving plastic back of the stacking chair.

Sister Jodie became a bit odd. A cloud seemed to pass over her a moment, then her hands came forward. She laid them flat, up-palmed, on her desk blotter and reaching towards me.

"I know, Simon. I know that nothing's the same now. The person you are today can never be the Simon who was a boy last year. So, tell me, what’s on your mind."

I couldn’t reveal to her that Father Strathmore touched me; I couldn’t tell her about Terry and the fort; I couldn't convey how I felt in my heart about 'things,' so what could I say?

"I prefer the old days. I liked it when my 'sins' could be more private, and, I don’t know, just between God and me."

"Oh, Simon. But now is a wonderful time in the Church. She is clothed in the themes of newness and approachability. The mass is not in Latin anymore, the priest faces the congregation while consecrating the bread and wine, and most importantly, the Church is open because of the inclusive nature of the Second Vatican Council."

She went on, sitting back on her seat some. "The Church wants to be open and bold; wants to be proud of who She is, and how She helps people all around the world better understand their personal relationship with God, and how to use that to do good works for one another."

I don’t hide my skepticism. "So, the 'old' Church being Sister Tatiana and Monsignor Helfgott?" In my heart, I doubt that Father Strathmore's actions – locking Gina in the closet, his demanding of shame and physical contact from me – constitutes a policy shift.

I upset her. Her nervous gaze flickered; she bit her lip, and slowly gathered herself.

"Simon, you know that as a nun, I cannot interfere between anyone and his or her Confessor. I…I…can tell you frankly, that Sister Tatiana and Father Strathmore were sent to Saint Lazarus parish to so some 'clean up.' Please don’t ask me for details, but on a personal level, between you and me, I was horrified by the way Sister Tatiana treated you, Simon."

She swallowed down long and hard before asking, "Has Father Strathmore been, 'inappropriate' with you? Please know that you can trust me."

I merely trained my sight to stay locked onto my hands in my lap.

"Just…" she continued. "Just…nod your head, Simon. And that will be enough."

I do nod, slightly. Sister Jodie inhaled and stood. For a half-second I thought she going to kick me out. Instead, she walked to the window, watched me in reflection, and quietly asked, "Are you all right? Did, did he…hurt…you?"

"No, he didn't hurt me. I…I just confessed some, you know, personal stuff – feelings – and then he put his hand on my leg. But it was weird, because, I don’t know – "

She stopped me. "All right, Simon. I think I understand." She turned to me; her hands played a torment with one another at the waistline of her skirt. "And, I am very sorry it happened."

She waved me over, so I stood, and together we watched quietly over the deserted play yard.

"So, did Sister T tell you what is wrong with me?"

"There is nothing wrong with you, Simon. Why do you live in fear?"

"With all due respect, Sister, please don’t avoid the question. Did Sister Tatiana say she thought…I would become…please don’t make me say it."

The tension in her face fell; she bit her lip again, but in another moment, she inhaled deeply. "Simon, do you recall, way back when, your 2^nd grade class was asked to sing at Christmas mass?"

"Yes," I slowly smiled. "I remember. The choir loft seemed so high, and we were standing on bleachers too so our voices could carry to every corner."

She tentatively draped her arm across my back.

"Yes," she hugged me slightly, and then her breath was low and bated as she continued. "But, do you remember practicing for it?"

She grinned, and the corners of her eyes lifted behind her Hippie glasses in some shade of happy recollection.

"Umm…" I started.

"We met every afternoon for a week in the library, practicing."

"I remember," I reassured her.

"Simon, I was at the piano, and your whole class was arrayed around me, sitting on the floor. When I played and heard how tentative everyone was, I was saddened. Singing is supposed to be like life is to us. I mean, joyous, free and beautiful.

"All your classmates were shy and mumbling the lyrics, and then I saw you.

"You, Simon – you were lit up. You felt the words, and your soul was aglow as you sang out with a voice unafraid."

She sniffled back.

"And what's more, Simon – you did it with a big grin and open-mouthed. Any chance you remember that, Simon?"

I thought a moment, and told her what I did recall. "You had me stand up. You had me stand by the piano as we went over the song again, and you told everyone 'Sing like Simon does.' That much I remember."

She squeezed my shoulder a bit harder, and laughed. "I didn’t do it to embarrass you. I did it to show your classmates how I wanted them to feel and be expressive: fearlessly!"

My principal removed her arm, leaving an instantly cooling void across the top of my shoulders. She slowly bit her lip again, and some moisture gathered behind the round lenses of her eyewear.

"Whatever you are going through right now, Simon, just keep in mind, God did not make you, or me, or anyone else on this Earth to be miserable. He wants us all to do the best we can for each other, and move the world closer to His plan for us."

Her tears fell freely.

"Simon, He wants all of us to live open-mouthed, and joyously." She paused. "Do you believe me, Simon?"

My glance drifts over the unpeopled play yard.

"I want to believe it, Sister."

"We all must seek out God's plan for us, and do it unafraid."

"So, God doesn't hate? He doesn't hate me?"

"Oh no, Simon. Perhaps from amongst all the young people God has blessed me to see pass through my life, God's Grace shines the most beautifully through you."

She suddenly whipped off her brass-rimmed glasses and wiped her tears, laughing. "But, remember – no favoritism, ok?"

"Yes, Sister. I know. And, thank you."

˚˚˚˚˚

All is quiet in the church.

'Hair Mary, full of grace…'

I've done 36 pair now, but feel no closer to my goal.

The shadow in the vestry door moves again. He is still ensuring that I complete my assigned self-punishment, but in my mind I consider something else.

Namely, that my good friend and classmate Jodie, and our principal, Sister Jodie, are more alike than in simply what they are called. Both have an openness about them, and both are moving forward into the light of honesty, and towards 'love.' That's truly modern! There are no dark corners in their world-views.

But shadows seem to be the only place Terry and Father Strathmore are comfortable in.

Terry's double attitude is like his being naturally left handed. It's only through the conditioning of fear and ignorance from his teachers – just to suit their ideas of 'normal' – they forced him to live right handed, because it is easier on them, and in so doing, wind up slapping God in His face. It's dumb, because in private and away from their judgments, of course he's going to be himself. Who wouldn't?

I lift my head, and open my eyes. The one burning candle and its red light hits my slowly adjusting vision, and finally I realize what exactly it is about face-to-face Confession that makes me so uncomfortable. It's being confronted with the undeniable form of another person – a man – for that's what a priest is, a person.

'Our Father, who art…'

We are asked to 'lift up our hearts to the Lord,' but once we do, once we are fully able to be ourselves, fearless and free of spirit to our Creator, why do we then need a priest to come between us?

Trying to connect to God through another man is like trying to see Him through a frosted pane of glass. The image of the divine is distorted by that man's own personal faults. The image of God that comes across looks to us to be oddly human, temperamental, and flawed; but He's not supposed to be, is he?

And as for 'hell' not being a place on Earth, and a place of continual torment to a living mind, I just consider that a father's love is tied to notions of being unconditional and all forgiving. Are we to believe a human can love more deeply than God? Threatening hell for who a person loves is a stupid notion. It's just the voice of a scared group of people damning others for an attribute He gave them; one He gave to me. The hatred is Man's doing, and clearly so, because like forcing a southpaw to use his right hand, it's random, it’s arbitrary, and it's ignorantly cruel.

'Hair Mary, full of grace…'

I suddenly pity them down to the center of my very core – Terry and Father Strathmore, and everyone like them – because they carry their own hell in their hearts. In their inner life, they dwell in the shadows of small claustrophobic rooms, which are closed-off and form dark little chambers only penned in by fear.

A gasp catches in my throat; my hands part.

I stop rattling off the meaningless string of words in my head.

I do pity those people, and I will not let myself fall into the same pit they have tossed themselves, because God does not want that for us.

Sister Jodie is right. God wants us to live open-mouthed and unafraid.

A glance at the lamb paintings, and at the doves, makes me refold my hands; makes me pray out loud.

"Dear Lord, please – I beg you – grant your peace upon their troubled minds, and let them see the true light of your Love."

And as I pray for them, and not for myself, the flat image of the pair of doves on the wall seems to take flight. They slowly but surely alight over my head and descend into my throbbing heart.

"Dear God, let them finally recognize that the love placed in them is a radiant shade of your Love, and came from nobody else but You. Amen."

I stand up and cross myself.

I exit the pew and begin to walk towards the front of the church.

The shadow in the vestry door moves.

I turn to my right at the head of the aisle, and begin heading for the door. As I pass by the sanctuary, I do not feel even the slightest urge to genuflect.

Father Strathmore storms out.

"Have you finished, young man!"

Some annoyed and holier-than-thou anger pings the church walls around me.

I don’t stop walking; I don’t look back. "I'm done," I tell him, and take delight that my voice is full of clear-ringing and joyful resolve.

As I head for the side exit of the church, the finial stanza of Terry's gloomy poem is in my mind.

'But you, tyrant that ever be

Your only demand is suicide –

To your hallow gift all decree

The shadow's pace that I long to hide.'

I push on the panic bar, and immediately the open blue sky, the sounds of birdsong, and the crush of spring blooms on the sweet-smelling air greet me like a foot-stomping girl. 'Where have you been so long,' she wants to know.

The church door closes and clicks behind me, and as I stand on the top step, I start to smile. My hands rise above my head for a moment, and then I pull my little green notebook from my back pocket.

I flip pages until I find Terry's shadow poem. I slowly rip it out, and in turn, I rip that green-ink-stained sheet into confetti and toss it to the wind.

Jogging down the granite steps, my sight drifts to the left and to the glorious Judas tree in full bloom close to the church door.

I walk away knowing the only thing I have to be contrite about is 'confessing' something I knew was placed into my heart by my Maker – and let's face it – Christ was right, it's God alone who is all-good.

This doubt on my part was the last wrong left to be righted. At the bottom of the steps, I turn on my heels and walk home in the opposite direction of school and of church, and do so buoyed by a clean conscience, and all the glories of Nature provided by Her awesome creator.

~