as my smile shadows his excitement. Then his face sulks.
Almost as though he were disgusted, just realizing
something is wrong.
It was the same face my mother gave me when I
finally told her I was going to school for theology. To
become a bride of Christ. She had never been too religious
raising me. Visiting our friends at the Episcopalian Church
on Christmas was as faithful as we got, growing up. My
mother told me that I had so much more I can live for and
that I didn’t need to follow my husband’s same fervor in
faith. That his death was a tragedy but shutting myself off
from the world was not an answer.
I didn’t think of it as shutting myself off, at the
time. I thought of it as committing to a mission. God’s
mission. But she was right. I was really occupying my
mind, my essence, from the agony my bones felt every
morning James wasn’t next to me in bed. It was only when
I saw Father Williams tour our convent that I realize just
how lonely I was.
I had seen him smiling at me. Leering even. I
decided to make gestures back. Sudden hints with a hand
grazing his arm. An accidental scratch against my chest,
drawing attention to my figure. Some weeks later, after
multiple encounters and conversations, we are here.
“The power of Christ compels you,” he says. “The
power of Christ compels you!”
I cannot help but release my gratification. Ecstasy
surges through me like sudden burst, rippling my muscles
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