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"Still struggling with prayer, Dean?"
Thomas carefully studied the patterns on the porcelain cup—he loved the exquisite smoothness of the material, the pink-and-gold ornamentation, so simple, just a border of small squares arranged in a checkerboard pattern. He loved the way the cup chimed against the saucer, but only if placed down gently. He could have found a hundred more virtues in that cup, anything to avoid raising his eyes to the Pontiff. Lawrence could feel His Holiness gazing at his face, and there was no avoiding the meeting of their eyes.
"Still struggling," he finally replied, still not looking up. Thomas hadn’t expected such a heavy sigh to escape him. "I’m such a fool." And he certainly hadn’t expected to say _that_. "I used to always feel God’s presence. Maybe it sounds prideful, self-absorbed, but I could feel His gaze on my back. I knew He was near. But now... I think I might just be insane. Yesterday, I opened the Bible, and my palms burned—maybe it’s Him trying to reach me, and I’m pushing Him away? Or maybe I’m just delirious, and He isn’t even..."
He didn’t say "there." Didn’t dare. But he did dare to finally lift his gaze.
The Pontiff had leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into Thomas’s face without blinking. His eyes were, as always, soft and loving—he looked at everyone like that, at beggars, at kittens, at people on the streets, at him, at Thomas. Thomas had envied him from the moment they first met, from the second he noticed the imprint of the Lord’s hand upon his face, some indescribable, barely perceptible glow. An expression of peace and humility, threaded with a fine strand of grace—that was the kind of man this new Pope was. Delicate as a yellow Lebanese rose, with eyes like a chamois, but strong as a cedar. God had never abandoned him; he was His beloved child, tested—disciplined—but never forsaken. He didn’t know the coldness of the Almighty Father.
"His presence, as you felt it, Thomas—what was it like?" And that gentle voice, that enchanting accent—every word he spoke sounded like an incantation.
"You know how the Syrian monks wrote about feeling the pain of all humanity in their hearts?" Thomas looked at his own reflection in the Pontiff’s dark eyes. A wet dog. "I thought I felt that pain, and with it, love—aching, tender, like a mother’s love for her newborn when she’s still afraid he might not live long. But for all people. How to describe it... Remember the enlightenment Prince Myshkin felt in 'The Idiot' before his epileptic fit? That, but constant. I breathed that feeling; it was torturous but sweet. The Orthodox would say I fell into delusion, but I think that’s because our Orthodox brethren lack the passion we Catholics have. We can indulge in luxuries like religious ecstasy."
Lawrence let out a short laugh. He was almost no longer afraid that His Holiness would think him mad (or a heretic). Now, he only feared the Holy Father would notice his lie—sometimes, that feeling returned to him. That heart-clenching, bittersweet ache. But only in recent weeks, and only when he kissed his ring—especially if he accidentally brushed his lips against the warm skin. Maybe grace seeped into him through his mouth, particles of His Holiness’s blessing—where else could this all-devouring tenderness come from?
"‘Prove me, O Lord, and try me; melt my reins and my heart.’" Vincent quoted the Psalms, and in his eyes, Thomas saw something—a flicker, almost imperceptible, as if he wasn’t just speaking about his poor Dean. "He is seeking a path to you, Thomas. He loves you, as He loves all—perhaps even more, if He tests you so. He wants you to return to Him on your own, through all these thorns. You should be proud He leads you by the most winding roads." His hand rested over Thomas’s clasped palms, and only then did Lawrence realize how tense he had been all this time. He was trembling like a taut knot, ready to snap.
"It’s like I’m locked in a dark room, trying to catch a black cat by the tail. It glares at me with shining eyes but always slips away."
"You will catch it, once your eyes adjust to the dark." Vincent (yes, just Vincent now, as Thomas knew him) smiled faintly and stroked Thomas’s hand. "But until your sight is sharp enough, I will pray for you. If you allow it, of course."
Thomas stayed silent. His gaze wandered slowly over the face before him, and he felt his heart filling again with that mysterious feeling. Maybe grace was transmitted through touch, too.
"Your hair has grown so long." That was all he could say, while Psalm 8 echoed softly in his mind.
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?