God's gift

Ave Maria

— "Tristan. I am father Tristan"

An ancient name, for an ancient soul, she thought.

— "Frances"

The priest only nodded to acknowledge her presentation, and she wondered at his silence. Shyness? Surely not, for he seemed at ease. Like a man of God, intent on guiding a stray sheep back to the fold. She used to despise those men, accusing them of being short-sighted, finding them blind to the world and the reality of things. But here, surrounded by ethereal voices and flickering candles, her rational mind felt weaker than at the university.

His voice, one more, called her back to the present.

— "So what's the story of that candle?"

Frances took a heavy breath, willing for her eyes to stop stinging. But the pain was still raw, the wound never closed. Would acceptance come, someday, and the merry moments populate her memories rather than the harshness of her absence?

— "I just miss her. I wanted to be close to her, to understand her faith."

Her voice was barely a whisper; father Tristan only cocked his head aside.

— "Who was she?" he asked gently.

— "My father's mother... Grandma," she stuttered.

— "I take it you don't come often."

Frances blinked at his attempt at conversation. His smooth voice acted like a balm on her pain, as if, no matter what he said, solace seeped into her bones. For a moment, she wondered if the man was human and not a mystical being, an angel hiding under the frock. One quick glance with her blurry eyes, and she realised he was expecting an answer. Uh.

— "I ... Yeah. The last time I set foot in a church was to bury her. Five years ago"

Another silence settled, neither awkward nor long enough for them to feel like breaking it. But Frances wanted to know; why her grandma always chastised her for swearing in the name of God.

— "Why do people come to church, Father?"

The priest's eyebrows rose high, and Frances realised they barely existed. As if they'd been drawn, and blurred afterwards. He wasn't expecting her question, and seemed to think for a while. Good; he wasn't one to answer with platitudes.

— "People come to pray. To think. To clear their minds or simply rest it from a burdensome life. Sometime they come to address the heavens in hope they will guide us."

And despite the shudder than ran up her spine, Frances scoffed. What if people interpreted things the way they wanted to?

— "Do they ever answer?" she replied with an ironic smile.

Father Tristan ignored her impertinent tone, his eyes rising to the stained glasses that flooded the nave with light. A wistful expression settled on his features, something ... almost mystical. Then his hazel eyes returned to her, a discreet smile quirking his lips.

— "You'd be surprised. Sometimes, it feels that they do."

— "Right"

What else could she possibly say? That she didn't believe it? That she judged all those people stupid, or naïve for thinking that another could take decisions in their stead? That the world was such an ugly place that no God could ever condone it? That if the almighty existed, he could have prevented slavery, cruelty, disease and hunger to roam the world? What her parents had taught swept all those theories, burying them into the cold, hard ground. Take care of yourself, better you mind, help your friends and do not ever let someone else take control of your life. Frances was an intelligent woman – so much that her mind refused to relent, even at night. No peace for the brainiacs.