The Briar & The Rose

The Briar & The Rose was an unassuming café nestled in the corner of Brennan Street and Glen Lane, just behind St. Augustine’s campus, a hidden gem for faculty and staff. It was only walking distance. A canopy of climbing roses framed the entrance, their scent wafting softly into the open-air seating area shaded by an old oak tree. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and eclectic—antique furniture, bookshelves crammed with well-loved titles, and a vintage gramophone quietly playing Mozart. It was a sanctuary from the daily chaos of school life.

On this particular evening, five priests gathered at a table tucked near the back window: Father Lance Lake, the distinguished headmaster of St. Augustine’s; Father Galen Hadaway, his nephew and trusted deputy; Father Spencer Vale, the gregarious football coach; Father Wayne McKnight, the ever-philosophical chaplain; and Father Tristan Greene, the enigmatic English department head and unofficial school exorcist. 

They had met under Father Lance’s direction to discuss the school's future. Amid the backdrop of coffee cups and flickering candlelight, their conversation unfolded.

Father Lance sat at the head of the table, a leather-bound planner open in front of him. His crisp black cassock was unadorned save for the silver cross at his throat, the only splash of brightness in his otherwise ascetic appearance. His steel-gray eyes scanned his colleagues.

“Brothers,” he began, his voice resonating with quiet authority, “thank you for meeting with me tonight. The Lord has greatly blessed our work here at St. Augustine’s. However, with blessings come challenges.”

Father Galen, ever methodical and deliberate, sipped his tea and adjusted his glasses. “Is this about the increased enrollment or the disciplinary issues that come with it?”

“Yes,” Lance nodded. “Both. But more than that—it's about our purpose. With over two hundred new students joining us next term, our mission to provide spiritual and academic guidance must remain unwavering. What changes do we need to ensure we are not just growing in size but in faith and excellence?”

Father Spencer, wearing his ever-present letterman jacket of red and gold over his cassock, leaned back in his chair. His energy filled the room as much as the cinnamon chai he favored. “We’ve got a championship football team, more extracurriculars than ever, and strong academics. But our students are dealing with some big issues—stuff we never thought kids this young would face. Social media pressures, fractured families, even dabbling in the occult. I’ve heard things on the field that...well, it keeps me awake at night.”

The group grew quiet as Father Spencer’s words hung in the air.

Father Wayne, his hands folded in his lap, tilted his head thoughtfully. His calming presence had often been the balm for the souls of both students and staff. “It sounds to me like they’re crying out for guidance—for someone to listen, to show them that Christ is their anchor.”

“But it isn’t just guidance they need,” said Father Tristan, who rarely spoke unless he felt it absolutely necessary. His sharp green eyes flickered between them, his fingers tapping lightly against his tea cup. “They need protection.”

“Protection?” Father Galen asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” Tristan replied. “Our students’ fascination with the occult isn’t harmless. Some of what we’ve seen this term points to...something darker. Father Lance, you recall the incidents with that dormitory séance, the Ouija board, and—”

“—the girl who claimed to see shadows, yes,” Lance finished gravely. “Her parents are convinced it’s nothing more than anxiety.”

“That’s what they want to believe,” Tristan said. “But we both know there’s more to it. St. Augustine’s sits on consecrated ground, yet evil always finds a way to infiltrate. It tests our students, tempts them. It tests us too.”

Spencer exhaled loudly, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not seriously suggesting demons are targeting the football team, are you?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m suggesting we remain vigilant. If this institution is meant to shape future saints, we must expect opposition. Spiritual warfare is real, and ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

Wayne nodded solemnly. “I’ve spoken with several students who feel burdened in ways they can’t articulate. We need to remind them that they don’t fight alone.”

A waitress appeared, quietly setting down a fresh pot of coffee. The priests murmured their thanks before resuming their discussion. As the scent of dark roast mingled with the roses outside, Father Lance opened his planner again.

“Let’s focus on action,” he said. “Father Galen, what structural changes might help address these concerns?”

Galen adjusted his glasses again, pulling a notepad from his satchel. “We should consider smaller class sizes for theology courses—more time for discussion, mentorship, and personalized attention. This might mean recruiting more faculty, but it’s an investment worth making. Additionally, we could integrate faith more intentionally into extracurriculars, ensuring Christ remains the center of student life.”

“That’s doable,” Spencer said. “And on the field, I could use a team chaplain. Someone who can engage with the players beyond drills and touchdowns.”

Wayne smiled softly. “I’ll take that under advisement, though I’m not sure they’ll appreciate my halftime homilies.”

Spencer laughed, breaking some of the tension. “Hey, as long as you keep it shorter than two minutes, they’ll be fine.”

“And what about the spiritual dangers Father Tristan mentioned?” Lance asked. “How do we guard against those?”

Tristan leaned forward, his tone serious but not alarmist. “We teach them discernment. Many students don’t recognize the spiritual ramifications of their actions. They need to understand the Church’s teachings on these matters—not just told to avoid something but why it’s dangerous.”

“We could host a seminar or retreat on spiritual warfare,” Wayne suggested. “Bring in speakers who specialize in these topics. Perhaps even open it up to parents.”

“Good idea,” Lance agreed. “Many of our families are dealing with these issues at home.”

“And we can’t forget prayer,” Galen added. “Perhaps more adoration hours, more opportunities for confession. Let us not underestimate the power of sacrament and intercession.”

The priests nodded, their collective agreement a silent prayer of its own.

As the evening wore on, their conversation moved from logistics to philosophy, dreams, and hopes for the school. They spoke of the joy of seeing students thrive, of the difficult but rewarding path of priestly service, and of the sacred responsibility entrusted to them.

The clock struck ten, the café now quiet but for their voices and the occasional clink of coffee cups.

“Father Wayne,” Lance said as he closed his planner, “would you close us in prayer?”

Wayne nodded, bowing his head. “Lord, we thank You for this time of fellowship and discernment. Guide us in our work, that we may always serve You faithfully. Protect our students, our staff, and our school. Strengthen us for the challenges ahead, and remind us always of the hope we have in You. In Christ’s name, amen.”

“Amen,” the others echoed.

They rose to leave, each man feeling the weight of their vocation but also the strength they drew from one another. Outside, the roses glistened faintly with dew as the priests stepped into the cool night air. Above them, stars shimmered like a promise—a reminder that even amid darkness, light prevailed.

As they walked back to their quarters at St. Augustine’s, Father Lance spoke, his voice thoughtful. “The Briar and the Rose—it’s an apt name for this place. It reminds us that the thorns are inevitable, but the beauty of the rose makes them worth enduring.”

Father Tristan looked at him, a rare smile gracing his face. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To tend the garden, thorns and all.”

Father Lance nodded, and together, they returned to St. Augustine’s, their hearts resolved to shepherd their flock through whatever lay ahead.