Standing in front of the congregation with the choir, I am only dimly aware of my voice lilting through the dusty eaves and the mahogany benches. The people seem more excited than usual; the ever-present "i'm only here because I don't want to go directly to hell" arm-crossers are at a pleasant minimum.
I like the times like this.
I can watch all of the eager faces smiling as they sing along with us, their voices straining for the high notes but making up for it with the glory of enthusiasm. I try to hold back a grin as I watch the eyes of a little girl in the third pew widen as her father's voice suddenly bursts to life, his deep bass loud and booming underneath the harmonies that flit from us to them and back again.
And when the song is over, I turn back to the priest and bow my head. the smile on my face relaxes a bit as I think of the week's events. of my failures. of my sisters and brothers around me.
I wonder if i'm going to skip the eucharist again this week. it just feels so transparent these days-- a pompous, long-winded parade that everyone feels obligated to join even though they can't remember what it is they're celebrating.
"This is my body," I hear sighed above the rustle of missalettes. I am not looking, but I know the priest's hands must be holding the host up high for all to listlessly stare.
"Eamon. look," the same voice whispers.
My head snaps up as the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. There is an iranian man on the altar.
There is no sign of the priest.
I whirl to face the young woman next to me. sarah's forehead is slightly creased, her eyebrows arched inquisitively at my surely panicked expression.
Tthere is soft laughter in front of me. I spin to look back at the stranger and almost bump noses with him-- he is no less than two inches from my face.
His dark hands, moving so slowly and so tenderly, pull my face to his, padded fingertips pressing lightly underneath my jawline, turning my lips up to meet his.
My eyes are still open as he kisses me. And when the shock of realization washes over me, starting from my scalp and slamming down through me like a jackhammer blow, my eyes stay open as I kiss him back, clutching him to me as tightly as I have ever held a woman. his beard meshes with mine and there is no doubt that I am closer to this man than I have ever been to another, and my passion pulls us closer than can be imagined.
"Jhosua," I whisper when our lips finally part.
Again, that smile. and this time, he laughs. we hug each other for a moment, and when we finally pull ourselves apart, there are so many questions still burning on my tingling lips. I briefly think of kissing him again when he presses two fingers to my lips.
"Take me, eamon. I will be with you forever."
Ireach for him, and take the host from father jim's hands. I try not to shiver at the exquisite rush as I run my tongue across the eucharist and let it dissolve on my palate. And my knees only wobble a tiny bit as the choir rises to sing "amazing grace".
I like the times like this.
I can watch all of the eager faces smiling as they sing along with us, their voices straining for the high notes but making up for it with the glory of enthusiasm. I try to hold back a grin as I watch the eyes of a little girl in the third pew widen as her father's voice suddenly bursts to life, his deep bass loud and booming underneath the harmonies that flit from us to them and back again.
And when the song is over, I turn back to the priest and bow my head. the smile on my face relaxes a bit as I think of the week's events. of my failures. of my sisters and brothers around me.
I wonder if i'm going to skip the eucharist again this week. it just feels so transparent these days-- a pompous, long-winded parade that everyone feels obligated to join even though they can't remember what it is they're celebrating.
"This is my body," I hear sighed above the rustle of missalettes. I am not looking, but I know the priest's hands must be holding the host up high for all to listlessly stare.
"Eamon. look," the same voice whispers.
My head snaps up as the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. There is an iranian man on the altar.
There is no sign of the priest.
I whirl to face the young woman next to me. sarah's forehead is slightly creased, her eyebrows arched inquisitively at my surely panicked expression.
Tthere is soft laughter in front of me. I spin to look back at the stranger and almost bump noses with him-- he is no less than two inches from my face.
His dark hands, moving so slowly and so tenderly, pull my face to his, padded fingertips pressing lightly underneath my jawline, turning my lips up to meet his.
My eyes are still open as he kisses me. And when the shock of realization washes over me, starting from my scalp and slamming down through me like a jackhammer blow, my eyes stay open as I kiss him back, clutching him to me as tightly as I have ever held a woman. his beard meshes with mine and there is no doubt that I am closer to this man than I have ever been to another, and my passion pulls us closer than can be imagined.
"Jhosua," I whisper when our lips finally part.
Again, that smile. and this time, he laughs. we hug each other for a moment, and when we finally pull ourselves apart, there are so many questions still burning on my tingling lips. I briefly think of kissing him again when he presses two fingers to my lips.
"Take me, eamon. I will be with you forever."
Ireach for him, and take the host from father jim's hands. I try not to shiver at the exquisite rush as I run my tongue across the eucharist and let it dissolve on my palate. And my knees only wobble a tiny bit as the choir rises to sing "amazing grace".
