The Cross I Bear

“Are you there, God? It’s me.”

Once – now it seemed a lifetime ago – he’d knelt in this very same spot and felt a visceral connection to Him. An ebb and pull, just like the tide. A primitive force.

“- How’s she cutting?”

That sounded ridiculous. He wasn’t ringing up some old, near-forgotten relative for a chat. He’d not bumped into Him, by chance, in SuperValu- doing his numbers for the Lotto. He exhaled, rubbed his hand over the stubble on his jawline.

“The thing is… you’ve been distant lately, and…”

Shite, now it sounded like he was questioning a cheating spouse. He cleared his throat.

“It’s like this, God.” Best get straight to the point. “It’s not how it was before. I don’t FEEL you, anymore. Your guidance, like. I used to wake up, pray, and you’d be there, already. You were by my side, every day. Whenever I wasn’t sure, you’d give me the answers. I never, ever felt alone. You were always there, guiding me, loving me.”

His eyes stung. He DID feel like he was addressing a lover who’d gone astray. “Now I’m alone, and it’s when I need you most.” Jesus, he was pathetic – ah shite. There he went again. Taking His Son’s name in vain. Feck’s sake.

Someone towards the back of the church cleared their throat; he glanced over his shoulder. Philomena McKinnon, always first to mass; decked out in her finest two-set, handbag swinging – a handbag that he knew instinctively to contain her Missal, a pair of leather gloves and 1 euro, exactly, in coppers, ready for the collection. Her curled hair looked so crisp from lacquer and setting lotion that he considered calling out a warning as she bent to light a votive candle at the small side altar to Our Lady; he could just imagine the whoosh of her bursting into flame, and half-snorted as he imagined her racing to put her blazing head out in the baptismal fountain.

“Hello, Father” she finally called out to him. “Isn’t it some weather we’re having?”

He stood, walked out into the aisle, genuflected before the altar, and made his way toward her. “Oh, isn’t it just.”

Slowly but surely, the usual crowd filtered in. First the older women, mostly widowed, (though Mary Tully’s husband was very much alive, he barely set foot in the church – mad for the drink, that one.)

He hovered nervously in the wings, feeling – on more than one level – like an actor waiting to walk out in front of the audience, say his piece. 20 years of giving mass in this very same building, and NOW he was getting stage fright? He mopped fretfully at his brow with the sleeve of his cassock, walked towards his place, and stood looking at the crowd. A smattering of families with disinterested teenagers due to be confirmed or wide-eyed, eager younger kids, ready to take the leap and take their First Holy Communion soon, had joined the ranks. The turnout was not bad for first thing on a Sunday morning; not quite Les Mis, but acceptable.

As he took his place before the altar, Mossy started up the organ. The old ladies rumbled into action, limbs creaking as they stood to attention, while the teenagers merely sighed.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

“The Lord be with you.”

“And also with you.”

Jesus. He had done this so many times before; could do it with his eyes closed. Maybe that’s why lately it felt so much like going through the motions. He hurtled through Mass like he’d a bus to catch. The old ladies were barely able to keep up.

At the end, outside the church, with the last hand finally shook, he exhaled sharply and retreated to remove his cossack. Reaching into the top drawer of the desk, he pulled out the crumbled packet of Dunhill he kept for days like these and slipped through the side door, hoping that any stragglers had left. Lighting up, and spluttering as the searing burn of the stale tobacco hit his throat, he gazed out across the churchyard sadly.

He’d been an altar boy, first. Paul, his older brother, had wanted it – he’d asked their Mam if he could. Jimmy Doyle was one, he’d said. He knew that was enough that Mam would let him, because Jimmy Doyle was the golden child of the town, with his perfectly parted hair and scrubbed, pious expression.

“You can, then. But you’re to take JohnJoe with you.”

That was always the catch, in these big Irish families. You could do what you liked, to a point, but you’d always be dragging younger siblings with you.

He hadn’t minded, and neither had Paul, really; they did everything together, back then. Only, when the novelty of the cassock, and the new shoes, and ringing the bell had worn off, Paul made his excuses – homework, exams – and ducked out of it. He - JohnJoe - had stuck with it. He’d never really thought about God, but working with Father Clarke, following the mass, enjoying the calm and quiet of the church, the flicker of the candles, the warm woody scent of the incense… his Nan had been so proud when he’d said he was going to St Patrick’s, that he wanted to join the priesthood. His Mam too, albeit confused – “I didn’t think you were, you know…” her voice dropped an octave, wavering, “queer.”

And he’d been so eager, his belief had been so strong. Despite the scandals that had rocked the church, he’d never for a minute lost that connection; his sole purpose in life was to be a communicator of the Divine, a channel of saving grace, His word made flesh, and blah blah blah. He couldn’t even pick apart where he’d lost it, the exact moment. He’d started to struggle in prayer, though he still prayed daily. It all just seemed futile, because despite the Commandments, and the Gospel, despite the Faithful or maybe because of them, the world was still full of absolute cunts.

Sighing, he stubbed out his cigarette, flicked it into the hedgerow, and walked back into the church. Ready for Round Two.