unholy distractions

In the blistering cold, when nothing living in the little town swayed or moved during the day, only stood frozen under the faint sun, a woman entered a church, emptied her soul…got right with God.  Despite her protest, it was the Church where she would become whole.

Apart from the dim glow of the candelabra, and a bank of guttering candles in the nave, only illumination at St. Agnes the Faithful came from a line of narrow windows, high on the west wall.  Though few and small, the windows sometimes had a dramatic effect when, as now, they shaped the afternoon sun into shafts of light and tunneled down to the floor. He could barely see her face.  The woman’s face was in shadows.

Stepping into the light, he relished the effect, even as it blinded him.  Hesitating, he imagined the scene as others might see it, and then, embarrassed by his narcissism, stepped into the confessional and pulled the curtain shut.  He sat in the darkness and waited.  The sound of a curtain pushed aside, followed by the grunt of a woman sinking to her knees.  He composed himself and opened the grille with a brush of his hand.

            “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” Her voice was so weak that he had to press his temple to the grille so he could hear.  For some reason the voice was too familiar.  He knew it well.

            He wasn’t particularly interested by what she said.  As with most of those who made their way to his confessional, he barely needed to listen.  After years of priestly duties and hearing confessions, he was aware of most people’s weaknesses.  He assumed that the woman had lusted after another woman’s husband, might even have committed adultery…could possibly have lied or stolen something.  It was always the same.  He focused his attention on her faltering voice.  She’d been rambling in the self-justifying way that sinners often did, avoiding the wrong while emphasizing her intentions… that were, as always, good.  She’d said something about covetousness, about being blinded by greed, and the realization of her mortality.  She’d seen the error of her ways.  There was nothing remarkable in that, he thought.  The prospect of death had a way of focusing one’s sensibilities, and in particular, one’s morals obligations.  He tried to figure out why she was really visiting him…when she finally got to the point and began to describe the sin itself—what she’d actually done.

The woman tried to speak but was suddenly tongue-tied.  With much effort, she broke off in a rugged gasp.  She cleared her throat with a strangled sound that was, at first, embedded deep within her chest…and then erupted with such ferocity that the booth trembled.  He feared she would die on the spot.  Instead, he heard the door crash open.

            He listened.  And when he could take no more, the word burst from him in a gasp:  “What!”

            In a hushed and urgent voice, she repeated what she’d said.  She described vividly every detail so that there could be no mistake about the sin.  As he listened to the terrible and persuasive details, his heart lurch in his chest.  What she had done…what she planned to do…the sin committed…was the most spectacular deed imaginable…so deep and terminal that heaven itself might never recover from it.  Was it even possible?  The sounds curled around his ears like a cheap wool scarf.

            She was silent now, breathing hoarsely as she waited in the dark for absolution.  He was speechless.  He could not think…could not breathe.  It was as if h