Sweetest Sin(93)

Something for Father Raphael before he left.

But hadn’t I already given enough? My heart. My soul. My virginity?

I had nothing else to give this man, and yet, if he had asked, I’d have given him so much more of me. But he’d made his choice. He decided on the path for his life, and I wasn’t a part of it.

I shouldn’t have expected to be.

It was selfish. Wrong.

And it hurt too much.

The festival was blitzed in light and music, shrieking laughter and crying babies. The cacophony swirled in my head, throbbing like a hangover. I wished I had the courage to drink, but Mom and I kept no temptations in the house. Why test an already tested soul, she had said.

If only I’d listened to her.

I hadn’t slept. My voice wasn’t in any shape to sing for the concert, and I feared the sounds that would squeak out once I attempted my solo.

Deacon Smith gathered us in a circle, and his blessing for a fun and productive Battle of the Bands quickly devolved into a plea for some sort of miracle that would keep us on key or un-tune everyone else’s ears. But despite his lack of faith, Father Raphael had always complimented us.

And he was nothing if not honest.

I scanned the crowds. The stage and risers were installed in the back of the lot, shimmering in the lights and the neon glow of the rest of the festival. I remembered St. Cecilia’s events as a child…and it was probably why I worked so hard to make this event better.

Craft booths were moved to the far corners so we could open the main path to games, bouncy houses, even an arcade. The rides were installed to the right, near the road to draw in more people. And the food booths and candy shops were pushed to the back, so more attendees would walk through the lanes.

It worked. The festival was packed into the lot, and hundreds of people swarmed in the sweltering late-summer night.

But he wasn’t here.

Or he wasn’t with us.

Father Raphael probably spoke with the other churches, greeted the rest of his congregation, or accepted the well-wishes of everyone in the parish who was still finding the time to thank him for his love and service to the community.

I hadn’t thanked him enough for that kindness.

And I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I had no idea what I’d do when I faced him again, probably for the last time. I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage.

But hadn’t I already done that?

How could I resent a priest for following his calling?

What was wrong with me?

No matter how hard I tried, I’d never justify my feelings. Our last conversation spawned words that erupted from a dark and terrible place in my heart. I didn’t know that sin existed in me, and I hated that it might have been the last thing I ever said to him.

The crowd cheered as the lights centered on the stage. Judy crossed into the spotlight to greet the festival.

“Welcome, welcome!” Judy took a microphone, juggled with it, and struggled to shout over the feedback until Deacon Smith slapped it from her hand and adjusted the setting. The crowd showed their gratitude in modest applause. “Thank you all so much for coming to cheer on St. Cecilia’s first—and hopefully annual—Battle of the Choirs!”

The festival attendees funneled towards the stages while the bells, whistles, and other loopy game sounds echoed over the park. Alyssa and Samantha each took one of my hands and clutched them to their chests. At least it covered them up. Deacon Smith was unable to convince them to wear something more modest that didn’t reveal their flirty pink bra straps to the entire congregation.

“You ready?” Alyssa giggled. “How pathetic is it that this is the highlight of my summer?”

Samantha pouted. “I don’t see Daddy El. He better come over to wish us luck before we sing.”

I said nothing, listening as Judy introduced our distinguished judges for the event—two town commissioners and the owner of the local Pizza Hut. It seemed absurd now, but all Father Raphael had wanted was to provide the church better opportunities. He’d worked tirelessly to give us fun activities and a chance to get involved in the community.

And he’d succeeded. Despite the sins and darkness and nightmares of his past, Father Raphael did good everywhere he went.

The least I could do was sing for him, so he realized not all of things we did together were sins.

In fact, the entire summer had been wonderful.

Confusing.

Heart-Breaking.

I chugged my water before I got upset. I’d lose my voice if I started to cry.

And I’d never be able to explain the tears.

We took to the stage last—and after four rousing renditions of Ava Maria, the crowd cheered when Deacon Smith announced our chosen hymn, Pie Jesu.

The choir picked it because it best complimented my voice. I chose it because I knew Father Raphael would love it.