Read Online Confessions by Ryne Douglas Pearson - Free Book Online Page B

knowing that what I have done, my refusal to heed my calling and offer absolution to a dying man, has left me spiritually suspect. To myself. And certainly to my Maker.
    “Father Jerome.” The voice startles me, though I instantly recognize it. I have thought myself alone, but when I look to my right I see Father Augustine Taylor at the end of the pew, his painfully thin frame bent lightly forward, slight weight supported by a simple wooden cane gripped in a bony hand. After eighty-three years on this earth, the majority of it spent in service of God, he finds himself in residence with three priests, none of whom are even half his age. Living at St. Mary’s as a retiree.
    “Father Taylor,” I greet him. He smiles and gestures to the space next to me on the pew. “Please, sit.”
    He sidesteps between the wooden benches and lowers himself toward a sit, the last few inches too much for him, and his body settles down hard. He grimaces briefly, then the smile returns and he looks to where my attention has been. Our Savior.
    “Did I ever share why I became a priest?” he asks, his eyes still fixed above the altar.
    “I don’t believe you have,” I say. “Not with me.”
    “The dental plan,” he says, and in spite of myself and all that has transpired, a barely suppressed laugh slips out. Father Taylor looks to me now, seeming to savor the burst of lightness he has elicited from me. “God wants us to laugh. He wants there to be joy in here.” His smile ebbs just a bit now. “You are a joyful person, Michael, but today you brought no joy to your flock.”
    The instant of quiet merriment fades fully from me. I am surprised. It is uncommon that a fellow priest just ‘attends’ mass. They would almost certainly participate in some capacity as concelebrant upon the altar. This afternoon’s five o’clock mass I officiated alone.
    “You should have joined me on the altar,” I say, sidestepping his observation of my lacking demeanor.
    He nods. “I should have. But it tires me, more and more now. And sometimes it feels more right to be among the believers than before them.” He hesitates for a moment of self appraisal. “Rather unpriestly, I suppose.”
    “Rather honest,” I correct him.
    He accepts the counter view I offer and turns his attention again to me. “What is your trouble, Michael?”
    I think on what to say, if anything at all. I could confess all to my elder colleague, leaving out details that might lead to the identity of the one I have wronged—Eric. This is permitted by Canon law.
    But what would motivate such an act on my part? The desire for my own measure of absolution, or the want of putting my actions in the past tense? A deed already done. An aberration. A moment of weakness acted upon. How can I confess my failing when I do not truly know, in my own heart, why I would be seeking forgiveness? I know what I did was wrong, if not abhorrent, but a part of me struggles at this very moment as to why that is. He was party to the killing of my sister, and I was supposed to ease his way to the afterlife?
    “Have you ever been faced with a person seeking forgiveness who…” I struggle with how to finish my question.
    “Does not deserve it?” Father Taylor completes it for me. But I am not sure he has captured my true wondering.
    “Who you’re not able to forgive?”
    He studies me for a moment, my words more than puzzling to him. “The forgiveness you offer is not your own. It is God’s. You are the messenger.”
    “Yes,” I say, acknowledging the correctness of his interpretation, though my tone hints that the scope is too broad.
    “But?”
    It would be easy to look away from Father Taylor as I say what I do next. Maybe even expected. A furtive, embarrassed glance off toward some dim corner of the sanctuary where candles flicker like some earthbound field of stars. But I do not. I fix fully on him so that he is clear on my meaning this time.
    “What if it is personal?” I say. “For