Mass seems longer than usual in the run-down chapel the Judes call a church. The priest, Father Alvarez, speaks long and even longer on the virtues of forgiveness in these trying times. She sits with all of the other children, save for the newcomer who sits with Madre and Padre. He eyes her past the arms of Madre. She clenches her teeth and turns her eyes back to Father Alvarez. He keeps staring at her and it causes her brothers and sisters to whisper among themselves. She pulls the brim of her hat down in an effort to block him out.
After Mass, she goes straight to confession like Padre instructed. The line is long and the wait uncomfortable in the sweltering heat of the church. It seems that everyone in the tribe had sinned in the past week. When it is finally her turn her dress is stuck to her skin.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Dolores starts in the way she was taught, bowing her head in humility. “It has been two months since my last confession.”
“Tell me your sins, my child,” Father Alvarez’ voice comes from past the wooden grate that separates them. The confessional had not stood strong to the test of time and she can see his eyes twinkling through the larger holes of the grating.
“I have struck another in anger,” she says.
“Again, my child?” Her head bows deeper in shame.
“Yes, Father.”
“Tell me the circumstances.”
“He said God didn’t exist,” she says in a weak protest. “Said that we were stupid for believing in Him.” In a quieter voice, she adds, “He also made fun of my favorite dress.”
“My child, we are not crusaders,” Father Alvarez says. “We do not force our faith on the unwilling and we do not demean them for being gentiles. We especially do not strike our brothers and sisters in anger. This child, this boy, is your brother now, regardless of his lack of faith.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I want you to say ten Our Fathers and thirty Hail Marys.” Her head snaps up at that.
“That’s way more than last time!” The father’s eyes narrow in disapproval and she bows her head again. “I mean, yes Father.” He nods, seemingly satisfied.
“All right, little sorrow. 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.”
“Amen,” she murmurs. “Gracias, Father.” She leaves the confessional booth, walking past the various other members of the Judes who had to wait longer than she had. She walks the dirt road to her house, delaying the saying of her prayers by kicking the stones. When she enters her home, her mother is busy making Sunday lunch and her father stands by the stairs with his arms crossed.
“How did confession go?” he asks sternly. She averts her eyes to her mother, who is busily setting out plates for the family.
“Ten Our Fathers and thirty Hail Marys,” she says. He nods, motioning to the stairs.
Aches and Sorrows 3/?
Mass seems longer than usual in the run-down chapel the Judes call a church. The priest, Father Alvarez, speaks long and even longer on the virtues of forgiveness in these trying times. She sits with all of the other children, save for the newcomer who sits with Madre and Padre. He eyes her past the arms of Madre. She clenches her teeth and turns her eyes back to Father Alvarez. He keeps staring at her and it causes her brothers and sisters to whisper among themselves. She pulls the brim of her hat down in an effort to block him out.
After Mass, she goes straight to confession like Padre instructed. The line is long and the wait uncomfortable in the sweltering heat of the church. It seems that everyone in the tribe had sinned in the past week. When it is finally her turn her dress is stuck to her skin.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Dolores starts in the way she was taught, bowing her head in humility. “It has been two months since my last confession.”
“Tell me your sins, my child,” Father Alvarez’ voice comes from past the wooden grate that separates them. The confessional had not stood strong to the test of time and she can see his eyes twinkling through the larger holes of the grating.
“I have struck another in anger,” she says.
“Again, my child?” Her head bows deeper in shame.
“Yes, Father.”
“Tell me the circumstances.”
“He said God didn’t exist,” she says in a weak protest. “Said that we were stupid for believing in Him.” In a quieter voice, she adds, “He also made fun of my favorite dress.”
“My child, we are not crusaders,” Father Alvarez says. “We do not force our faith on the unwilling and we do not demean them for being gentiles. We especially do not strike our brothers and sisters in anger. This child, this boy, is your brother now, regardless of his lack of faith.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I want you to say ten Our Fathers and thirty Hail Marys.” Her
head snaps up at that.
“That’s way more than last time!” The father’s eyes narrow in disapproval and she bows her head again. “I mean, yes Father.” He nods, seemingly satisfied.
“All right, little sorrow. 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.”
“Amen,” she murmurs. “Gracias, Father.” She leaves the confessional booth, walking past the various other members of the Judes who had to wait longer than she had. She walks the dirt road to her house, delaying the saying of her prayers by kicking the stones. When she enters her home, her mother is busy making Sunday lunch and her father stands by the stairs with his arms crossed.
“How did confession go?” he asks sternly. She averts her eyes to her mother, who is busily setting out plates for the family.
“Ten Our Fathers and thirty Hail Marys,” she says. He nods, motioning to the stairs.