Page 87 - What They Did to the Kid
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What They Did to the Kid                                   75

               and with a swimming breast stroke pulled open the heavy green
               curtain and  walked out through the twenty lines  of  three  hun-
              dred repentant boys waiting, shuffling, murmuring outside the ten
              Confessionals.
                  I knelt in a back pew near a pillar. The medieval dark was musk
              and damp as March. I shivered watching the far-ahead flicker of the
              red sanctuary lamp casting shadows through the darkened church
              across the marble altar. Once again a priest had failed to say any key
              word. Perhaps no one would ever tell me. Perhaps boys who never
              heard any word of revelation lacked a true vocation. Jesus could not
              pass by like that, words unspoken between us. I’d find the words to
              Jesus directly: with nobody between Him and me.
                  The Lord would take me.
                  Oh Lord, do take me. My life. My vocation. Wreck me. Break
              me anew in You. Bring me close to You and Your Virgin Mother
              and pronounce me a priest forever. To hold You in my hands, hav-
              ing said the consecrating words, while the world crashes in its own
              violent sins around us. To move out through the streets, to the sick
              and to the sinners, carrying You in my heart. Oh God. Jesus God.
              Let the priests themselves deny me the way to You. I’ll only crawl
              onward on hands and knees to Your altar rail. Crucify me with fewer
              words than You spoke crucified. Let me will nothing but what You
              will. Let my will be Your will or Your will be my will—or however
              it goes. See, Lord, I can make jokes with You and talk to You as my
              friend and brother. You are all I have. My whole family is You. Your
              souls must be my children because I am not like other men. Let me
              suffer the fearful violence of Your life in my life. And, Lord, the one
              thing, oh no, the only thing I ask is You deliver me safe from the
               awful temporal possibilities of temptations. I’m afraid to be too free.
               I might change or be changed and lose You. So if anything should
               ever go wrong, I don’t, if I should commit a serious sin and be about
               to die, I beg You to remember, don’t want, that this once, this actual
               moment, I loved You intensely, this pleasure, with all my heart and
               soul and never really meant to take my heart and soul away. Save
               me, Lord, from the fires of hell. Oh, omigod, take me, Lord. Take
               me now into Your changelessness.
                  In the phosphorescent dark, the sanctuary lamp flickering light


                        ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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