Broken and dejected.
“How could God do this to me? To us? How can I have hope in a God who is capable of this? He’s a monster!"
There’s a long pause before I hear his voice, bathed in kindness and encouragement. “My child,” he begins, “our God works in mysterious ways. It is He who has brought you the gift of this baby, and it is He who will see you through to the resolution, whatever that may be. You must only believe in that, believe in Him.”
“But how can I? He’s taken so much from me already. How can I believe in a God like that? Why should I believe in a God I have nothing in common with?”
“Because you do have much in common with Him. Much more than you think. Our God is a God of sacrifice. It is written throughout the ages, in His Word, in our lives. He knows your suffering. He knows what it is to love so deeply that He would give up His own life for that of His children. In fact, that is precisely what He did. He came to humanity in the flesh of a man, His son Jesus, and He was crucified so that we might have life. He knows the sacrifice of pain and death. He knows what it is like to be afraid and to feel alone. You must never forget that He has been where you are, where all of man has been. He knows your torment like no one else. But you must also believe that He loves you like no one else, as well. He would never allow tragedy without purpose, never give a gift without a plan. He will guide you in it if you but ask Him. He waits for you to bring this to Him. Give Him your sickness. Give Him your child. Give Him your choices, and He will make your way straight.”
I feel as though the priest is spinning me in circles, talking to me in a secret code that I have no way of deciphering. I don’t know what to say or what to ask, so I continue to kneel on knees that have long since gone numb, and I wait.
His next words are what bring it all together, what hit me right in the center of my chest.
“Take hope from here, my child. You lost it long ago, but God has brought you to this place to recover it. Maybe this is what He has been trying to give to you all along—hope. His hope. The hope that gives strength where there is only weakness. The hope that gives peace where there is only fear. The hope that offers a miracle where there is only despair. Perfect hope.”
What he’s suggesting sounds like surrender. He wants me to surrender control and worry and fear to God. Like I didn’t surrender when my sister died. And when my father died. And when my mother all but left me. And when I was diagnosed with cancer. He’s suggesting that I surrender this time. That I give up control and let someone else take over.
But how am I to do that?
“How do I get it? How do I feel hope again?”
“You accept it. Like you accept Him. It is that simple.”
That simple.
And that difficult.
My phone chirps from inside my cross-body bag, causing me to jump. It reminds me that I’m not in Vatican City alone. I’m here with my husband, and Nate will probably be frantic looking for me.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in the confessional. It feels like an eternity, but also like the blink of an eye.
A lifetime and a heartbeat.
Whichever it is, I feel sure Nate is worried.
I scramble to get to my phone. “I’m so sorry, Father, but I’m sure that’s my husband. He won’t know I’m in here. I need to go.”
“I understand,” he says softly. In my mind, I can almost see him nodding graciously, always kind. “May God bless you and guide your way, and may you find the hope that you are searching for.”
“Thank you,” I say, pushing out of the little cubicle inside which I’ve been kneeling. I pause, peering into the darkness, wishing I could see his piercing blue eyes, wishing I could see what’s in them. “Thank you so much.”
“Bless you, my child,” are his only words before I feel his presence disappear.
Ten
Blaze of Glory
Lena
Ifloat on a strange calm as I walk away from the confessional. I feel as though I sliced open my heart for that priest, as though I bled out on the floor for him and left many of my doubts and fears lying in the pool of my agony. I feel it the moment I exit the tiny room.
And evidently Nate notices it, too.
When I look up, he’s standing at the edge of the transept, very close to where he left me, his fathomless eyes fixed on me as I approach.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you. I really…I wasn’t planning on that,” I assure him, hiking a thumb over my shoulder to indicate the time I spent in the sacred chamber.
“Yeah, I was a little surprised to see you in there.”
“You saw me?”
“Well, when I couldn’t find you and I didn’t get a response to my text right away, I started looking. I recognized your shoes sticking out.”
I glance down at my brightly colored Tieks and then smile back up at my husband. “I guess there’s no losing me in these.”
Nate grins. “No.”
“Did you… Could you hear anything?”