Come, child of God, lay your burden down....
God our Father, you sent Saint Patrick to preach your glory to the people of Ireland. By the help of his prayers, may all Christians proclaim your love to all men. Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.
She wishes Nightcrawler were still an ordained priest. She's not sure how full a confession she can make without declaring herself a mutant, and she doesn't know this priest very well. She doesn't know if she can trust him.
She'll have to confess that, too, now.
The screen opens. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned." The words roll off her tongue with the ease of long use.
"Tell me of your sins, my child." The priest doesn't sound bored. That's something. She's not sure how she'd react if he sounded like he didn't care.
"It's been a few weeks ... four or five ... since my last confession. I'm sorry. I can't remember. I've been traveling."
"Go on."
"Pride. I confess t'pride." That was the big one. "And anger."
"Yes?" His voice is encouraging.
"I ... it's hard t'explain." She gathers her thoughts. "I've been so confident in my ... abilities. I'm good at what I do, Father. I've helped people, and I believe I'm using my talents the way God wants me to. I recently--I'm still working at what I was doing before, but I changed companies. I thought I knew how 'twould be different. But I didn't make sure of how they do things at the new place, and I ... messed up."
"How seriously?"
"Not as seriously as I could have." They'd all made it back from Genosha, and the Kansas City debacle. "I was--I get angry when I feel humiliated. I lashed out at the man who told me about my mistake."
"Lashed out how?" His tone is sharper now. She's got more than his attention now.
"Verbally," she says quickly. "I didn't strike him, father. I swear by all the saints I didn't."
He sounds relieved. "That's--you shouldn't have lashed out at him, but it's good you restrained yourself from physical violence. Go on."
"Yes. Anger. At the man I spoke of, at myself ... and ... I've had impure thoughts. Of a sort."
"About this same man?"
"No!" Her voice is louder than she intends, and she quickly modulates it back to a more acceptable volume. "No. Another man. My father doesn't care for him."
"You said 'of a sort.'"
"Yes." The silence lingers for a few minutes. She breaks it gently, quietly. "It's complicated. He's someone who's been important to me. Annoying at times. I don't know how I feel about him. I keep getting confused. I wish it could be as simple as hating him, or lo--I mean, I'm troubled in spirit about him, father, and I'm worried about him. He's in a dangerous line of work, and we haven't spoken in months."
"Does he care about you?"
"Yes," she whispers. In his own warped, twisted, devoted way. "But I can't--not just because he ... that would be wrong."
"What would be wrong?" Again that gentle encouragement.
"It would be wrong to l-love him back just because he loves me."
"If that's the only reason, yes. You've said it's complicated. Can you be more specific?"
Still a whisper. "No. I'm sorry, father. I've tried to figure it out. But every time I try to be logical--he's not very logical at all, at all." Her brogue is getting thicker. "It doesn't apply to him. He doesn't always make sense, so I can't make sense of how I feel about him."
"I see. Have you tried prayer rather than logic?"
"No, father. I've--no. It didn't...." She exhales slowly. "I haven't. But I will."
His smile is visible through the screen. "I'm glad to hear it, my child. Now, what other sins have you committed since your last confession?"
"Erm, pride, anger, impure thoughts." Theresa thinks carefully. "I was tempted t'drink, father. But I attended a meeting instead. I'm committed t'my sobriety."
"May God continue to strengthen you in that. What else?"
"I think that's it, father. O my God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to sin, and failing to do good, I have sinned against You and Your Church. I firmly intend, with the help of Your Son, to make up for my sins and to love as I should."
"God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. For your penance, continue to attend your meetings. When you are praying about this person who loves you, try putting it in God's hands rather than worrying over it. Apologize to the man you lashed out in anger. Meditate on the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary. And my child?"
"Yes, father?"
"Try to make it to confession more often than once a month?"
"Yes, father. I will."
The marble beads of her rosary are cool at first between her fingers, but they warm as she prays, the memorized words eventually giving way to something deeper.
God. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I haven't been a better Catholic. I feel like I don't have much faith at all, but I want it. I think I need it. You. Please help me. I don't know what to do, and that terrifies me. Blessed Mother, it scares me like nothing else.
She wishes Nightcrawler were still an ordained priest. She's not sure how full a confession she can make without declaring herself a mutant, and she doesn't know this priest very well. She doesn't know if she can trust him.
She'll have to confess that, too, now.
The screen opens. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned." The words roll off her tongue with the ease of long use.
"Tell me of your sins, my child." The priest doesn't sound bored. That's something. She's not sure how she'd react if he sounded like he didn't care.
"It's been a few weeks ... four or five ... since my last confession. I'm sorry. I can't remember. I've been traveling."
"Go on."
"Pride. I confess t'pride." That was the big one. "And anger."
"Yes?" His voice is encouraging.
"I ... it's hard t'explain." She gathers her thoughts. "I've been so confident in my ... abilities. I'm good at what I do, Father. I've helped people, and I believe I'm using my talents the way God wants me to. I recently--I'm still working at what I was doing before, but I changed companies. I thought I knew how 'twould be different. But I didn't make sure of how they do things at the new place, and I ... messed up."
"How seriously?"
"Not as seriously as I could have." They'd all made it back from Genosha, and the Kansas City debacle. "I was--I get angry when I feel humiliated. I lashed out at the man who told me about my mistake."
"Lashed out how?" His tone is sharper now. She's got more than his attention now.
"Verbally," she says quickly. "I didn't strike him, father. I swear by all the saints I didn't."
He sounds relieved. "That's--you shouldn't have lashed out at him, but it's good you restrained yourself from physical violence. Go on."
"Yes. Anger. At the man I spoke of, at myself ... and ... I've had impure thoughts. Of a sort."
"About this same man?"
"No!" Her voice is louder than she intends, and she quickly modulates it back to a more acceptable volume. "No. Another man. My father doesn't care for him."
"You said 'of a sort.'"
"Yes." The silence lingers for a few minutes. She breaks it gently, quietly. "It's complicated. He's someone who's been important to me. Annoying at times. I don't know how I feel about him. I keep getting confused. I wish it could be as simple as hating him, or lo--I mean, I'm troubled in spirit about him, father, and I'm worried about him. He's in a dangerous line of work, and we haven't spoken in months."
"Does he care about you?"
"Yes," she whispers. In his own warped, twisted, devoted way. "But I can't--not just because he ... that would be wrong."
"What would be wrong?" Again that gentle encouragement.
"It would be wrong to l-love him back just because he loves me."
"If that's the only reason, yes. You've said it's complicated. Can you be more specific?"
Still a whisper. "No. I'm sorry, father. I've tried to figure it out. But every time I try to be logical--he's not very logical at all, at all." Her brogue is getting thicker. "It doesn't apply to him. He doesn't always make sense, so I can't make sense of how I feel about him."
"I see. Have you tried prayer rather than logic?"
"No, father. I've--no. It didn't...." She exhales slowly. "I haven't. But I will."
His smile is visible through the screen. "I'm glad to hear it, my child. Now, what other sins have you committed since your last confession?"
"Erm, pride, anger, impure thoughts." Theresa thinks carefully. "I was tempted t'drink, father. But I attended a meeting instead. I'm committed t'my sobriety."
"May God continue to strengthen you in that. What else?"
"I think that's it, father. O my God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to sin, and failing to do good, I have sinned against You and Your Church. I firmly intend, with the help of Your Son, to make up for my sins and to love as I should."
"God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. For your penance, continue to attend your meetings. When you are praying about this person who loves you, try putting it in God's hands rather than worrying over it. Apologize to the man you lashed out in anger. Meditate on the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary. And my child?"
"Yes, father?"
"Try to make it to confession more often than once a month?"
"Yes, father. I will."
The marble beads of her rosary are cool at first between her fingers, but they warm as she prays, the memorized words eventually giving way to something deeper.
God. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I haven't been a better Catholic. I feel like I don't have much faith at all, but I want it. I think I need it. You. Please help me. I don't know what to do, and that terrifies me. Blessed Mother, it scares me like nothing else.