Chapter Text
The confessional was much smaller and more confined than you remembered it being. It had been a while since you'd been in it, though you'd attended Sunday mass regularly. There were plenty of things you needed to confess to, but you'd been putting it off due to one particular thing that weighed heavy on your heart. You weren't sure if you'd be able to get through it, to confess it out loud, without completely breaking down.
Especially considering who you'd be confessing to.
An important part of confession was that it was symbolically anonymous. In larger churches, it was easy for a member of the congregation to slip into the booth unnoticed, confess their sins, and then go away without fear that the priest on the other side would recognize their voice. Even though priests were bound by the Seal of Confession, it was still nerve-wracking to have someone else in the church know your deepest, darkest secrets. What if they did manage to recognize your voice? Then every time they looked at you, they'd think of what you'd confessed.
This was especially true in the small Catholic church on Crockett Island. There was only one priest, Father Paul Hill, and the congregation was small enough that he would most definitely recognize your voice – if he didn't see you step into the confessional booth first.
But you had to do it. The things weighing on your heart were too heavy for you to carry anymore, and there was no one else in the church – on the whole island – that you trusted to talk to. You weren't sure if you were looking for forgiveness or advice, but the confessional seemed like the only place to look.
You wrung your hands together in your lap and kept your eyes shut. You could feel Father Paul's presence on the other side of the lattice screen. He didn't wear cologne, but there was a scent coming off of him that was washing over you. It wasn't unpleasant at all. You actually quite liked it, and wondered if he always smelled that way. It was so rare for you to be close to him. He was either up by the altar during service, or being surrounded by other people at community events. And while he'd started an AA program just for Riley Flynn, you didn't drink so you had no reason to attend. Your encounters with Father Paul seemed to only be in passing.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you said, squeezing your hands tighter. “My last confession was …” You thought for a moment, embarrassment creeping up your neck to your cheeks. “One year ago. I think.”
There was a moment of silence and you briefly wondered if Father Paul was judging you, when you remembered that he had nothing to say until you'd confessed your sins. You swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly.
“In the past year, I have committed several sins. I have lied to people … not out of malice or necessarily to deceive them. Most of them were to make them feel better. Like, at the Crock Pot Luck, Mrs. Andersen brought potato salad. She asked if I liked it and I lied and said I did. I know it's not a big deal, but a lie is a lie. It was deceptive, anyway … I've lied more times than I can remember. I've also thought unkind things about people in the community. I have spoken poorly of people behind their backs. I have gossiped. I cannot give a number, Father, I have done these things too many times.”
You paused again, trying to organize your thoughts. To your surprise, Father Paul took this brief pause to speak.
“You are right to say that a lie, even a well-intentioned one, is still a lie. It's meant to deceive a person, whether for good or bad. But I believe there is nuance to situations such as the one you described. You did not go out of your way to deceive Mrs. Andersen. You were prompted by her and put in a situation where the truth would have done more harm than good. While lying should never be justified …” Father Paul let the sentence hang, unfinished, in the air between the two of you for a long moment. “Sometimes people are not in a position to hear the truth. Sometimes we must keep the truth hidden from them until the time is right to reveal it. God has done this many times throughout history, and continues to do so today. Do we know all the plans He has for us? No. Even if we ask, He doesn't always reveal it to us fully. He is not lying to us, but rather revealing information to us once the time is appropriate. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Father.” Your hands were slick with sweat. You wiped them on your thighs and then squeezed them together again. “I still feel guilty about it, though.”
“That's why you're in confession. The other things you've mentioned – the gossiping, the unkind thoughts, the unkind words – is that everything you need to confess today?”
Your body trembled. Goosebumps ran up and down your arms. You felt like you'd simultaneously burn up and freeze to death in that confessional booth. You dared not look over at the lattice screen in case you caught a glimpse of Father Paul with his black hair and dark eyes. It was hard enough just hearing his voice and smelling him.
“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “There is more.”
Unbelievably patient, Father Paul waited for you to continue.
Guilt washed over you and left tears on your cheeks. You stared down at your hands, pale from how hard you were squeezing them now. If you didn't get this confession off your chest now, you never would. It would haunt you forever.
But it would haunt you forever if you did confess it, especially to him. But who else were you supposed to go to?
If Monsignor Pruitt was here …
If Monsignor Pruitt had been there, you wouldn't have to be confessing in the first place.
More tears rolled down your cheeks, a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
“I …” Your voice was weak. It almost made you angry. When you blinked, tears rolled off your jaw and to your shirt. “I need to confess something and I am seeking advice about what to do about it.”
“Go ahead.”
You cursed Father Paul. You wished he'd never arrived on your little island. If he had just stayed where he was and Monsignor Pruitt had never left on that trip, this would never have happened. You would have been ignorant and happy and–
“I have romantic feelings for a member of the clergy.”
There was a long, loud silence in the confessional booth. Your entire body felt hot with shame. You steeled yourself and added:
“A priest. I'm … in love with a priest, Father. And I don't know what to do.”
The silence remained. It was obvious he knew that you were talking about him. There were no other priests on the island, and you would have to do some serious soul-searching if you meant Monsignor Pruitt.
The guilt was coming over you again. You shouldn't have said anything. You put Father Paul in an unfair position. You should have kept it to yourself, or gone to someone else who could have helped you through it. Erin Greene or Riley Flynn's mom or the Scarboroughs. Anyone would have been better than Father Paul.
Well, not anyone. You would never dare to tell Bev Keane. If she'd been on the other side of that confessional screen instead of Father Paul, she already would have condemned you to Hell.
Father Paul sighed deeply. His voice was soft but deep when he spoke. “This is a very delicate matter. I assume you have not acted on these feelings?”
“No, Father. I would never dream of doing that.”
“That's good. And I am assuming that the priest in question doesn’t know about how you feel?”
You weren't sure if you were relieved or mortified that he was pretending that you weren't talking about him. “No, Father, he doesn't.”
“That's also good. I will tell you, you shouldn't be embarrassed about this. I can hear it in your voice – you haven't done anything wrong. Having a crush on a priest isn't a sin, even if it feels like one. It's actually quite common.”
“It is?”
“Yes. There are many young women who find themselves developing romantic feelings for the leaders in their church. It is a sin depending on what one does with those feelings. If you haven't acted upon them, then there is nothing to confess.”
“But I don't know what to do about it. I … I need advice, Father.”
“I won't lie to you, it will be a difficult obstacle for you to overcome. Because it is a priest, I can't and won't advise you to stay away from where he works. Avoiding the church is not going to help you, it will only serve to separate you from God's Word. The most important thing for you to do is to honor his choices. He has elected to become a priest and he has made a vow of celibacy and committed himself to God. You need to respect that. Even if it's difficult.”
You nodded even though Father Paul couldn't see you. More tears bubbled out of your eyes and rolled down in fat, heavy drops to your neck. You wiped them away with the flat of your palms.
“I don't want to compromise him. I just … He's the only man I've ever felt this way about, Father. This island is so small, and the church is even smaller. He's the only one who I felt actually saw me. He saw me as a person. It's so easy to become invisible in the place you've lived all your life. You just fade into the background. I don't feel like that with him. I feel seen. I feel real.”
“I am sure there are plenty of young men on the island and in the church that could make you feel the same way.”
“No, there's not. I've met everyone on the island, Father. It's all the same. It always has been.”
“We don't know yet what God's plan is for you. Perhaps the one you were made for isn't on the island. He might be on the mainland. Just because we cannot see it doesn't mean it isn't happening. God's reach stretches throughout the universe. He sees you on this island and He knows what troubles your heart. He will answer you in His own time. Until then, remember Song of Solomon, chapter 8, verse 4, ‘I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem, do not awaken or stir up love until it is ready.’”
Your head fell into your hands. It was hard to cry freely when you knew that it wasn't just Father Paul who'd hear you, but anyone else who had stayed behind for confession. The thought of Bev Keane hanging around just outside, listening to you, made you want to curl up into yourself and disappear.
“Don't be discouraged,” Father Paul said, his voice sounding so close to you that you could almost feel his breath on the side of your face. “This could very well bring you closer to God and His purpose for you. And there are so many things that you don't know, yet. Things that have not yet been revealed. Things that … that will utterly transform this island. Psalm 30 says that ‘weeping comes for the night, but at dawn there is rejoicing.’ This is merely the night for you. Your dawn is yet to come.”
You wiped your face aggressively with your hands and the cloth of your shirt. If the wet spots weren't obvious you'd been crying, surely your blotchy red face would give it away.
“What is my penance, Father?”
“For the sins you've confessed, five Hail Marys and six Our Fathers. For the other thing … I want you to read the verses I mentioned and really study them. Pray about them. I hope it will bring you peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Give thanks to the Lord for He is good. Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”
You wiped your face again and straightened your clothes. You opened the confessional booth door, stepped out, and were relieved to find that no one was there. Not even Bev Keane, who always seemed so eager to listen in to the gossip around town.
The other booth door opened with a clatter and you turned around quickly, heart racing. Father Paul stepped out of the booth, towering over you. His dark eyes were soft and sympathetic. You were too embarrassed to look at him for long. Your eyes darted to the ground. You'd never be able to look at him again.
Father Paul's large hands reached out and grabbed yours, clasping them together in a warm embrace. Surprised, you turned your gaze up to his chest, but avoided his face.
“Father Paul?”
“I want you to know that confession is a very brave thing to do, especially after a year. Monsignor Pruitt would be proud of you.”
“I … I don't think he'd care all that much.”
“He would, trust me.” He gave your hands a comforting squeeze. It was so much nicer than the death-grip you’d been wringing out while in the confessional booth. “Remember, what you told me is nothing to be ashamed of. It's not even a sin. But … that's as far as it can go.”
You finally turned your eyes up to his. It seemed impossible that he could be so kind, so understanding.
“It … hurts.”
“I know,” he smiled gently. “And it will for a while, and then … it will pass.”