Page 76 of Unholy Obsession

Agnes is in the front pew, and as always, her mouth presses into the disapproving line that seems permanently etched into her face. Like she’s been judging priests and finding them lacking since the Reformation.

She’s always seen right through me, hasn’t she?

Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, rosary beads slipping between her fingers with practiced devotion.

I feel a rush of affection for her. For all of them.

They’re imperfectly living lives of frail faith. Most people who step foot in a church eventually learn to get good at pretending, but how could I shepherd them when I’m the biggest pretender of all?

So, as I move into the sermon, one of the last I know I’ll ever give, I try to say something honest for once.

“You’ve all been so kind to me in my few years serving you. I’ve been a foolish young man stumbling around trying to find my way, pretending I could offer any wisdom when the decades you all have on me humble me. Sometimes I feel like nothing at all.”

I swallow hard and look down, my careful notes blurring in front of my eyes. I’m supposed to offer wisdom, guidance—a glimpse of something divine. Laughable, considering how obscure everything has seemed of late.

All I can speak about is what I do know.

“Tonight is a night celebrating hope born into the world. I imagine it’s hope that’s brought most of us to church in the first place. Either that or your grandma dragged you along.”

Some chuckles come from the crowd.

I look from face to face in my congregation, abandoning my notes. “We’ve all faced struggles in our life. Dark times when it felt like there was no way out. I know I have. And when I wasat my most desperate and hopeless, pleading to what felt like an unkind universe for help, it felt like something answered back.”

Heads nod. I’m not the only one who’s experienced this. Of course, I’m not.

“Hope returned, just when all was lost. A hand was extended. A kind word offered. Or we might find that light within ourselves from a well we thought was exhausted to help us through for justone more day. And then one more after that. And then another.”

My hands clutch the edges of the lectern as I lean forward. “God’s love comes to us in all kinds of unexpected ways. It’s as fragile as it is fierce. Like God Himself being born into this world as a baby in a dirty barn. Like losing all your worldly possessions but finding the kind of love that survives even when everything else falls apart.”

The words nearly tangle in my throat.

Because, holy shit,I love her.

I love Moira. Not just the chaos of her and not just the way she makes me feel alive—but all ofher. Even the parts that scare me.

Just because of who she is.

She showed up like a miracle in my life, and Iloveher.

I barely manage to keep my hands steady while I move through the rest of the service.

I have to call her. I’ll drive home tonight after all; I don’t care if I only get an hour of sleep before tomorrow’s morning service.

Finally, we get to the service’s last tradition—the Midnight Mass candlelight benediction.

The lights dim slowly, leaving the sanctuary bathed only in the faint flicker of candlelight from the altar. I step forward, holding the single flame that will spread from person to person like a ripple across water.

“Light shines in the darkness,” I say softly, my voice carrying even in the hush. “And the darkness has not overcome it.”

I light Agnes’s candle, watching as she turns to pass the flame along. A soft glow blooms in the darkness—fragile yet unstoppable. One small light grows into a sea of flame.

The organ begins the first gentle notes ofSilent Night.

Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright…

The congregation sings, voices blending, soft and reverent. I watch their faces bathed in golden light—hope flickering in fragile flames.

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