Page 66 of Devour

“I know,” he mumbled.

“But if I were a priest, I’d remind you no one but God has the authority to pass judgment. If you feel the need to confess, then do so. Ask for your penance and move on. However, I can’t imagine a kid like you doing anything the Lord couldn’t forgive.”

Noah’s brow furrowed again, and he chewed on his lip. “Okay, but what if… I know it’s a sin… and I don’t want to be…”

Long pause. Very long pause.

“...a sinner?”

Another deep sigh, one that likely seemed as if the limits of my patience had been met. Which was true, of course, but not because of this dizzying line of questioning. These were the moments that kept me in this position for as long as I had stayed. So long as kids like Noah needed at least one compassionate adult in his life, I would do my best to stick around.

“Have you hurt anyone?” I asked.

“No.”

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“No…”

“Then more than likely it’s not a mortal sin. People don’t go to hell over venial sins, Noah.”

“But what if—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Mortal sins are more than the act itself. The sinner also needs the knowledge that it’s a sin and to consent despite that knowledge. Knowing something is sinful isn’t enough if there is no choice on your part. Do you understand?”

Noah released a heavy breath. Once unburdened, if only temporarily, he nodded. “You’re my favorite of the deacons, Deacon Eli.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I muttered, folding my hands on my desk. And really, I did. I was not the most patient nor the most cheerful. I was not particularly funny nor fun. Still, I enjoyed working with the kids and most of them liked me in return, for whatever reason.

“You try to seem strict but… you’re the least judgmental. It makes you the easiest to talk to.”

“Well, thank you.” Leaning farther into my chair, I stared back at Noah. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good. And if your parents happen to ask if I spoke with you, this is the same conversation we would’ve shared had you not come to me first. The next few years might be trying, but before you know it, you’ll be an adult, and cultivating your relationship with God however you see fit.”

“Okay.” Back to gnawing the lip, which hurt my heart even more for him.

“And remember what I said. Only God has the authority to pass judgment, and God will not revoke love nor forgiveness.”

An answer I firmly believed, but was not the lecture Father Michael would want me to give, nor Noah’s parents. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t do that to any kid, and I was past the point of caring what Father Michael thought about it. If he had it his way, I would’ve elected to step down from my position long ago.

After that, Noah thanked me and left.

Alone in my office, I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to breathe while leaning back in my chair. I hated this job. And I hated having to counsel kids who’d already begun hating themselves. And hated knowing if I left, someone else would sit behind this desk and make that sweet kid cry over guilt he shouldn’t feel. Lord help that poor boy, because I couldn’t do much more than I already had.

I opened the drawers of my desk, putting papers away and all the usual tidying before I left the job I hated. One which I would do every day for the rest of my life. In the very top drawer, one item stuck out among the general office supplies. The nail was not the typical flat circular top attached to a pointed cylinder. Instead, the sides had hard edges that met a squared head and blunt tip—designed to look more ancient than modern. For the longest time, I wondered why this relic survived the purge of multiple moves when so many other possessions didn’t—until I found a home for it in my office.

Growing up, we weren’t a Christmas-and-Easter family, and our parish wasn’t a Sunday-only church. Teachers walked us across the street to weekly Mass starting in kindergarten. Every time some sort of religious holiday landed on a weekday, we were in Mass before school. We didn’t even begin learning or leave the classroom without prayer first.

One Good Friday before Easter (and the ensuing break from school), had been unseasonably warm and only got hotter before dismissal. We spent half the day sitting in pews for the Stations of the Cross. The entire school, crammed in a church without air conditioning and fighting to stay alert all afternoon, wasn’t new to me or any of us.

This year in particular, someone decided it would be a grand idea to give us children nails upon exiting, like some kind of door prize. Someone who wanted to drive home that Easter wasn’t about bunnies and candy, but about pain and suffering. And even though I got the intention, for the first time I looked around and wondered if I was the only one who thought this couldn’t be right. Sure, my class would graduate soon, but most of these kids still believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny. And the adults were giving us nails. Either to make us appreciative or guilty that we didn’t have to suffer when someone already did it for us, maybe even both.

Except, I already knew I was gay. All my friends lived in a perpetual state of fear of disappointing their parents, and just last summer a kid in my grade had watched his best friend get sideswiped by a car while riding their bikes to the movie theater. I couldn’t believe the adults in our lives spent so much time and energy making us feel even worse while simultaneously preaching love. And I promised myself I would never be someone who gave nails to kids who were already crucifying themselves.

My phone buzzed in my pants pocket. I almost didn’t bother, considering the mood I was in, but shut the drawer and grabbed it anyway. Sure enough, it was Rhory.

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