Sweetest Sin(63)

“…I have greatly sinned in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do…” My gaze fell over the church—the bored parishioners in the pews, the children and adults on their phones, and the handful who listened.

She was there.

Honor clutched her hymnal in the center of the choir. She dressed in concert black, covered and pure once more. She, too, spoke the words of the prayer with meaning.

I clutched my trembling fingers into a fist, each repeated word a strike over my heart.

“…Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…”

And I meant it. Everything that happened between us was my fault.

Would it change anything? I felt no relief. No hope.

I was once a perfect, penitent servant for Christ. Now, my blood stirred and thoughts darkened. Had she but whispered, I’d have given my soul to become a servant for her.

The readings echoed over the church, and I sat at the side of the dais. My gaze fell only to the sacred altar, the looming crucifix, my own folded hands. The choir stood behind me, and I flinched as Honor sang once more, a beautiful solemn psalm between readings.

I thought I was strong enough to save us both.

What if I was just weak enough to destroy her?

I stood once more, prepared to deliver the homily for the week. At least it amused me. The parable of the lost sheep. How apt. One truly repentant soul could make Heaven rejoice over the prayers of ninety-nine righteous souls who didn’t need to repent.

If I wasn’t a devout man, I might have overlooked the sign. But I knew what I had to do.

Protect Honor at all costs, through all transgressions.

And hopefully save myself.

The Mass was slower than usual, my motions tripped by trembling fingers or words. A dyslexia of the soul. I consecrated the bread and wine and deliberately focused on my actions, but my mind was blessed by images of her.

On her back. Sharing in a passion so honest and genuine and pure I couldn’t banish the beauty of it as I could cast away the nightmare of sin.

Lead us not into temptation…

The Lord’s Prayer meant so much in that moment, and yet, the sound muffled against my ears and heart. Had the congregation noticed?

Every sound dragged from my lips. I worried it called the wrong attention to me. That the congregation didn’t see my collar or my robes or the chalice I lifted in praise.

I feared they saw me. The sinner I was. The villain I’d became.

The lost child who had sought comfort and family within the church when his own blood wanted only to destroy his innocence.

I broke the bread and spoke the words, but my hands trembled.

The priest was always honored with the first gift of the Host. I cracked a small corner of the wafer, dusting my fingers over the chalice to ensure no crumbs spilled.

I couldn’t take it. I wasn’t cleansed. I hadn’t confessed. To celebrate communion   would only cause further sins.

I clenched my jaw and broke it again. Smaller.

The congregation didn’t notice. Maybe they wouldn’t see my shame.

I mimed the motion, pretending to take the Host upon my tongue. I drew the chalice to my lips but refused to taste the wine.

Did anyone notice?

I glanced over the pews. None whispered. No one thought any differently of the motions, my prayers, my guilt. Hardly anyone paid attention.

Only one person saw what I had done.

Honor looked away the instant our eyes met.

My heart had opened for her. Now it shattered.

If she asked, I’d have forgiven her. The question remained. Could I forgive myself?

That answer wrenched from the depths of my crumbling soul.

No.

Mass ended in praise and song, announcements and a few pleas for more volunteers for the Summer Festival. Deacon Smith praised the current volunteers. Apparently they had signed more vendors and brought more food, games, and activities into the parish.

They thanked Honor Thomas especially for her tireless work, and then the faithful filed out.

One ceremony done. One more to go, the Mass at noon. Larger than the early morning one.

How was I to get through another ceremony?

I had an hour to prepare, and I stripped of the alb and chasuble to collapse at my desk. My rosaries hadn’t offered me comfort last night. They weighed heavier in my hand now.

The knock was soft, too light and patient for Deacon Smith. I looked up as the door opened.

I’d expected her.

Honor dressed in black for the choir, a simple and modest skirt and long-sleeved shirt that hid everything I had cherished last night. Her hair was loose. For some priests, in some Masses, we asked woman to wear a scarf over their hair. Not in my church. Honor’s ebony curls bounced, soft and perfect over her delicate form. She looked no less holy, no less innocent than she had while resting in my bed.