Confessions of Conscience (York and Galilei)

[Thomas Galilei]

Thomas sweeps the dusty floors of the old church Sanctuary, moonlight through the open windows adding glow to the rows of empty pews. He prays in preparation to receive confession, waiting for whomever should arrive.

God, I make myself available for your use. Sometimes, failing for "the best," the Almighty settled for "the best around." Scary thought, isn't it? But a perfect craftsmen can compensate for a faulty tool. Wield me in your capable hands, for your loving purpose. Amen.

He looks around at the low ceiling, the stone walls. It really does feel like that: a Sanctuary . . . more a tiny fortress, really--safe. No gilded altar. No stained glass windows. It's a plain and simple place where a man or woman might meet with God, hopefully without distraction. Some day soon he might purchase some paintings, some carpet too . . . but for now, Thomas is pleased to have any place at all for ministry. His congregation would be its adorning ornaments, until a time when icing was in the budget.

He leans his broom against the side of the confessional, and takes a seat inside his half.

Selena @Vivian York

[Thomas Galilei]

A person. Kindred, he realizes, when they open the slot. Beast can sense best despite the blurring of physical form, can hate without seeing fully, just as it can hate without knowing fully, or even despite it. The two halves of the confession become a pair of adjoined cages, but the sensation dulls with passing silence, eventually fading, suppressed to back of his consciousness. "How long since your last confession?" He puts all the love and welcome he can muster into those words, without a trace of artifice.

Even as he awaits his or her answer, he prays, silently to himself. Not my will, but yours be done. Not my words. Not me. You. For you. By you. Please. Thomas' has some reckoning of a soul's value, enough to know he can't be trusted with one alone. He belongs as much in the other half of the wooden box as they--he knows better than to ever forget it.

[Thomas Galilei]

Important? He thinks a moment, almost laughs to himself. "No . . . I don't suppose it is. Tradition, you see? For some, it's important that I ask." He's a little shocked, but mostly amused by her asking. This woman, as it's apparent now, would have no trouble with honesty in their session. "I guess, too, it's a standard question to start with, one with an answer that's simple fact . . . to warm people up to intimate conversation with celibate clergy in a wooden box." He hopes his first question hadn't made her defensive, tries a bit of humor as an alternate means of helping her "get comfortable," of helping her relax.

Perhaps he should meet her sincere honesty with a measure of the same: "What's most important is whatever helps you most. I'm here to listen, to help you unburden your heart however I can. You could tell me some about your spiritual background, if you like; or you could dive right into trying to articulate what troubles you. No judgment or rushing here--that business is for magistrates and traffic cops."

[Thomas Galilei]

Thomas, smiles unseen. "You're delightfully honest, Ma'am." This woman has no illusions about her righteousness, or dramatizations about sinfulness--she simply is what she is, without apology or excuse. There's a certain charm to it, but Thomas cautions himself against mistaking plain honesty for a plain person. There are already complexities he's struggling to weave together: a widow, the casual defiance of tradition while still turning to it, a mixed history of religious experiences. She's an utter puzzle.

"I'm sorry to hear about your husband. I'm told that time heals all wounds--and vampires have an abundance of time--but there are such things as scars . . . and phantom pain." He trusts a bold woman not to be offended by his own unmalicious boldness. "I daresay, that if you threw it all out the window then, you might have missed some in the corner--we are here together, now. I've found, with myself, that all the times I had forsaken God, he had never forsaken me . . . footprints in the sand, if you prefer cute American idioms. But, a divorce requires two signatures, and God is not the kind to sign."

He pauses a moment, to gauge her silence, to let his words settle. "Do you think there was something to it, your leaving God, when your husband left you, in a manner of speaking? Perhaps you blamed Him? Or, feeling vulnerable, needed to detach?" Healing sometimes requires the opening of old wounds; Thomas is careful that his touch is as gentle as it can be, scalpel in hand.

[Thomas Galilei]

Thomas tries to understand as she further explains. "I was simply curious, I suppose, if there were a connection, between your husband's death and your 'throwing it out the window,' since the events, if I heard correctly, happened together." Thomas believes that by better understanding his fellows, he can better help them. It seems, though, by her questions and explanation that she'd rather be more forthright. "I remain sorry for your loss." On both counts.

"May I ask, now, more directly: what's on your mind?" He's genuinely curious, and hope it conveys despite their separation. Something special must have driven her here, to have returned to God after so long.