St. Ignatius - 3 pgs.

A cold January wind blew Collette through the front doors of St Ignatius Catholic Church. A flush of shame spread across her cheeks as the breeze carried farther inside and rustled the hair of an elderly woman kneeled in prayer. Collette guiltily envisioned the woman dying of pneumonia. When Collette stepped towards the baptismal font, her heeled shoes clicked and echoed, intruding on the soft quiet. This only caused Collette’s blush to deepen. At the font, she glided two pale, slender fingers across the holy water's surface. It was almost as though she was bestowing a blessing. With her dripping digits making the sign of the cross, she whispered, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

An excess of holy water made a moistened trail down the arch of her nose before diverging from its straight path to slide down a cheek. The damp sensation unsettled Collette. An image flashed in her mind of a Cyclops-like eye perched atop her forehead anointing her with salty, purifying tears. The sleeve of her cardigan soaked up the teary residue and banished the absurd vision. After walking down the aisle and genuflecting before the tabernacle, Collette entered a pew. The polished golden wood gleamed under a tempting red cushion, but recalling the kneeling elderly woman she had disturbed earlier, she pulled down a kneeler and bent down in penance.

Collette bowed her head, dark tresses spilling forward to obscure her face, and thus shrouded, closed her eyes in prayer. However, after the initial, “Dear Heavenly Father in your divine mercy watch over and protect –,” followed by a long list of family, friends, and passing acquaintances, Collette set her mind adrift. St. Ignatius was an older church and Collette, without opening her eyes, could see the intricate etchings and paintings hovering about the altar along with the half-dozen smaller statues stuffed into tiny, arched recesses. A high, curving ceiling and tall stained-glass windows prevented the church from appearing gaudy. With each exhale Collette expanded her consciousness out into the wide arching space, and then with a deep inhale she drew back, gathering the colored beams of stained-glass light into her.

Now calm, Collette painted a picture in her mind of the Virgin standing at the back left corner of the church. Sky-blue robes, outspread palms, and the snake twined about her feet made up this particular statue of Mary. Prayer candles illuminated the dim area. Their light flickering off Mary’s robes and face created the illusion of faint stirrings. Her most compelling feature was the expression she wore, which was as ambiguous as the Mona Lisa’s. Collette opened her eyes and twisted around. On Tuesday at the school mass, Mary’s face had held a gentle smile. Today, it appeared to Collette that the Virgin, alone in her dark corner, bore a forlorn frown. Collette pulled her attention away and looked at the stained glass on her right. It was Mary’s son on the cross. In startling contrast, Christ’s face was at peace, while his mother’s twisted in pain. Enrapt by the colors of blue, green, red, and white. Collette was taken to another time and place.

The past summer Collette had been driving her younger brother, Troy, home from soccer practice. Looking back, it seemed to her that before she even registered any danger, her body reacted. Before she saw the red SUV barreling down the hill toward Collette and her brother, palms saturated with sweat and shoulders braced for the impact. The sunlight crystallized the scene. The blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the white of the houses, and the red of the SUV were lit up, like the parts of a magnificent stained glass window. A fragile world about to shatter. It was too late for Collette to react, no time to lay on the horn or slam on the brakes or jerk the wheel. The SUV swerved, Collette screamed. There was a long silent moment and then Troy laughed in relief. But he hadn’t seen what Collette had seen in that moment, in that moment, which for her was the moment of what could have been. Twisted green metal, broken glass reflecting sky, spilled oil mixed with blood, and her life without him.

Collette pulled away from her fears and looked over at the confessional booths. It was 4:30 on a Saturday. Confession was the reason for Collette's being at St. Ignatius. The occasion wasn’t a special one; she hadn’t committed adultery or killed anyone or immersed herself in the occult, yet. Nonetheless, who knew how much farther into sin she would fall if she didn’t continue the ritual of reconciling her soul with God on the last Saturday of every month. A green light shone from one of the booths. Her joints popped as she rose, but her grace returned by the time she pulled back the gray curtain.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last confession,” Collette whispered into the darkness.