JACOB
But you, man of God, flee from all this, and pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance and gentleness. 1 Timothy 6:11
The road that led me to the priesthood was not straight and narrow. Rather, it was a long, winding road, one that was as convoluted as it was simple, as arrogant as it was disastrous.
Every day I dress in a black shirt with a crisp, white clerical collar snapped in place. Black slacks cover my legs and black work boots protect my feet. But even disguised in the uniform of a devout man, I carry darkness. I drown daily in the guilt of my crimes.
Seen as chaste, I am corrupted. Believed without sin, I bear the worst sins of all. Yet, I am the shepherd that leads his flock - the spectacle of God’s power and love. A rural Catholic priest who guides the fallen.
My parish isn’t the kind you’d find in large tourist destinations and bustling cities. Nestled in the heart of rural country, my church is tucked away in the slow moving lifestyle of the Appalachian mountains. There are no magnificent spires to glorify God’s grace, no flying buttresses that signify the beauty of our devout faith. It is a simple building in a simple town with stained glass windows that filter God’s light in jewel toned colors onto the rows of pews and the altar behind which I deliver a message I haven’t always believed.
Although, I was born to a wealthy family in the city, raised with my brother in the strict arms of the Catholic church, I found myself in a place that was far off from the life I’d once lived, isolated enough that I believed I could escape my demons.
Scars adorn my soul and shame is woven into my very existence. I’d once rejected God and the church right along with him. But like most foolish heroes you read about in tragedies and similar stories of warning, my belief that I could turn my back on something as great as our Savior only led to my eventual downfall.
Every parishioner who attends my church believes I am a godly man. Little do they know that I am the last person they should emulate or admire.
I am no stranger to sin, just as I am no stranger to salvation. And now, donning the uniform of a holy man, I have taken the tragedy of my life and used it to give back to the only faith that could save me from the pitfalls and potholes of the road that led me to this particular morning.
Routine woke me, just like every day, in my small, humble room in the rectory near the church. I showered and dressed, and I knelt down before the crucifix hanging in plain view to whisper my prayers to the Almighty.
I prayed for good weather for the farmers and laborers that worked in the county. I prayed for enough food, shelter and clean water for my parishioners and their families. I prayed that the day would pass as peacefully as it began, that it would provide me the time and clarity of mind to tend to the duties I carried as the leader of my congregation.
As it turned out, the last prayer had been one too many.
While pouring a cup of coffee in the large kitchen that stood at the front of the church nearest my office, I caught sight of an image that was as confusing as it was unexpected, as unbelievable as it was harrowing.
A young woman was kneeling outside in the grass blanketing the front courtyard. Confused, hurt, and plainly injured, her long dress was a deep navy blue. Her dark mahogany hair, although frayed and knotted at her head, was long.
I didn’t have my glasses and I couldn’t make out her features, but the blood dripping from her head, the way her body wobbled over the sodden ground, made it clear she was in distress.
Like an apparition, the morning light caused her to flicker in an out of focus. I was surprised I’d noticed her through the small kitchen window. It was a quick glance, something out of the corner of my eye, but I caught her movement as she knelt down.
Running through the hall, I threw open the front door to approach the young woman. She collapsed, her frail body crumpling, her head hitting painfully against the ground because she’d failed to brace herself. My hands were on her shoulders as soon as I was within arm’s reach.
“Miss?”
Patting her cheek, I attempted to wake her. There was no response.
“Father Hayle?”
One of the sisters ran up behind me, probably having noticed the way I launched myself through the interior of the church to get outside. She was immediately by my side and tending to the woman. I stepped back, lingering in close vicinity in case there was anything I could do.
“Call an ambulance, Father. This woman is alive, but she’s not responsive.”
Reaching down, I touched her skin and found it was cold. “Let’s carry her inside first. She’s already freezing and the damp weather will only make her worse.”
Picking her up took little strength. Her body couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Even as dead weight, I had no difficulty carrying her inside and laying her down on a couch in the front narthex.
Sister Joyce knelt to continue tending to the woman, however as I started to pull away, the woman opened her eyes. They widened almost instantly, a dazed smile crawling across her features.
“Elijah?”
A memory tugged at my thoughts, a shadow I’d kept hidden for some time. Her eyes were the same color as…
No. I must not think of such things.
The name the woman used startled me, but I shook it off, not recognizing it. Unsure why she’d referred to me in such a way, I pulled back.
“Elijah?” she said again, her voice growing with strength and panic. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”
Her movements became frantic. Reaching for me, tears burst from her frightened eyes. Before I could step back, she grabbed me, burying her face into my shirt, sobbing as she begged me not to leave.
I exchanged a glance with Sister Joyce before finally addressing the woman.
“Miss, my name is not Elijah. I’m afraid you have me confused with another person. My name is Father Hayle. I found you in the yard in front of my church. Are you hurt? Do you need us to call an ambulance?”
Her eyes peered up at me, stained red by her tears. She had the face of an angel – the face of a memory I was fighting to forget.
“Please,” she begged, “I know I failed. I know I didn’t trust God or you by running. I know I deserve to be punished, but please don’t abandon me. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll repent, but I can’t be thrown out. I was confused. Please…”
Her voice trailed off into her tears. This girl was deeply scarred. Looking up, I motioned Sister Joyce towards the kitchen and kept my voice at a whisper.
“Do me a favor, please. Grab a glass of water and some towels.”
She nodded, turning to do as I’d asked.
As an afterthought, I called out. “Also, we’ll need a first aid kit.”
Kneeling on the ground, I stared at the woman’s face.
“What is your name, child?”
Shaking her head, she sniffled before answering, “Sedra.”
“Sedra.” I repeated.
She shook her head again. “No. Oh my God, no.” Her tears fell harder. “My name is Eve. Please tell me my name is still Eve.”
Sister Joyce returned, silently handing me the glass and towels. Unfolding one, I wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders.
“Sedra…”
“No! Please let me be Eve. I want to be Eve. Please, don’t leave me.” Shrill and hoarse, she cried, fear shredding her words.
Inhaling deeply, I looked up to see Sister Joyce’s concerned expression. “Sister, please go have a room prepared. I don’t think she needs an ambulance, but she definitely needs a place where she can rest and have her wounds tended.”
Placing my hands on the young woman’s shoulders, I said, “I’m not leaving, but you need to rest.”
Sister Joyce hadn’t yet walked away and I cast her a questioning look. Her eyes widened in horror at the woman’s condition, but eventually she turned to do as I’d asked.
Whispering, I continued, “God is not mad at you, Eve. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m having a room prepared for you. You can stay here until you’re well. When is the last time you slept?”
“The night before … the night before our wedding. I slept the night before our wedding.”
Wedding? Finally, she gave me something I could use to locate her family.
“Do you have a husband, Miss? Is there somebody I can call?”
“You are my husband, Elijah. Why are you asking me these questions?” she cried.
She was exhausted to the point of confusion. “Yes, of course. Come with me. You need to sleep.”
Lifting the woman by her arms, I held her weight to my side, steadying her so that I could escort her to a small bedroom kept for parishioners who fell ill during Mass. We passed through the open doorway as Sister Joyce held up a blanket for me to cover the woman once she was lying on the bed.
The woman grabbed my hand before I could leave.
“Please stay with me until I fall asleep.”
Not knowing who the poor woman was, I took pity on her and nodded my head.
Searching the room, I spotted a chair in the right corner. “Sister, could you please hand me that chair? I’m going to stay as she’s asked, tend her wounds and pray over her until she’s sleeping.”
“Of course, Father. Can I assist in any other way?” Grabbing the chair, she quickly crossed the space to place it by the bed.
“No. I’ll call for you if I require anything further.”
Silently, she exited the room.
Using clean towels and antiseptic from the first aid kit, I cleaned the blood from her head, and tended the cuts on her arms. There was no swelling or other sign of injury beyond superficial scrapes.
Once she was bandaged, I grabbed a rosary and Bible from the side table. Leaning forward in my chair, I bowed my head and prayed over the confused and frightened young woman.
She shivered beneath the blanket each time I lifted my eyes to look at her. Lying still, her breathing evened out.
“Miss? Are you still awake?”
There was no response.
I didn’t leave immediately, instead choosing to look at the woman who’d crumpled over herself in the yard. She had thick mahogany hair, the deep brown woven through with strands of red. Even matted and dirty, it was beautiful. Images played in my head. Nightmares reminding me of a mistake for which I would never be granted forgiveness.
Jacob…
The voice dragged me to the past.
Blinking away the images – the voice that called to me still - I focused on the face in front of me.
Sedra or Eve - I wasn’t sure of her true name - appeared angelic. Her round cheeks were still full with youth, but her body was another story entirely. The bones of her arms and legs were clearly visible and the pallor to her skin spoke of dehydration or malnutrition.
She stirred, causing me to jump in my seat. I’d been studying her too closely and after watching her a second longer to ensure she was asleep, I left the room as quietly as possible, shutting the door but not so much that it latched.
Sister Joyce waited at the end of the hall, her hands wringing nervously over themselves. “Is that poor woman going to be okay? Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
I considered her suggestion, wanting nothing more than to alleviate myself of the puzzle the woman presented. However, she had no severe injuries other than obvious emotional trauma. I thought that, perhaps, sleep would cure that particular ailment.
“I’d hate to incur the cost of medical treatment if it’s not required. The people in this area are not in the best of financial circumstances. Maybe it will be best to wait and see if she is calm and better able to tell us her name and where she lives when she wakes. We could then contact her relatives and let them to make the decision as to whether she should seek treatment.”
“That’s wise, Father.”
Friendly eyes, the color of leaded glass stared out from Sister Joyce’s aged face. Besides the faint pink on her cheeks and the paleness of her skin that shone out against the black of her habit, I didn’t know much else about what she looked like. I didn’t care much either, but every so often the passing curiosity crossed my thoughts.
Walking back into the kitchen I poured the cup of coffee I’d been after earlier when I’d first spotted Eve … or Sedra. My thoughts returned to everything she’d said to me, but even as I digested it, I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it. She was scared, that much was obvious, but why did she insist I was someone else?
There was only one possibility for such confusion, a possibility that was an impossibility as well.
I’d been charged to this parish for twelve years now, but my life hadn’t always been in the Church. It started there with my father who was a devout Catholic. My brother, Jericho, and I were both raised with strict rules regarding our lives and beliefs. Every Sunday we were at Mass, but the other six days of the week also revolved around our faith. It was in everything we did: our schooling, our entertainment, our meals.
However, my devotion to the faith was never deep-seated or pure. I preferred science to religion, tangible properties that I could test and weigh, to the things I had to blindly accept were true.
By the time I graduated high school, I’d left the faith entirely, my family as well. Choosing to go away for college, I studied psychology and pre-medicine in hopes of becoming a psychiatrist. The human mind always fascinated me, and maybe, in truth, it was as a result of my father and brother’s devout faith.
I never made it back home to my father and brother, but I learned that Jericho had left only a few years after me. He’d fallen out of favor with the Church and had disappeared when my father chose his faith over his own son.
If Eve had known my brother, Jericho, that would be the only way she could confuse me with someone else so adamantly. However, it was impossible. The chances of Jericho ending up in the same remote part of the Appalachian mountains as me were slim to none.
Maybe she was drugged, whether administered herself or by another person, she could have been hallucinating. Except for a racing heart rate due to her distress, her other vitals appeared fine. Her eyes dilated with light, she was breathing regularly by the time she fell to sleep. Her skin had warmed almost immediately after she’d been brought inside.
Once my coffee was poured and I pulled myself from my thoughts, I walked the length of the modest church to my office.
A simple room, there was nothing more than a wood desk, a chair and the standard crucifix and degrees on my wall. I’d graduated college with my Bachelor’s Degree in psychology, but attended seminary school immediately after. For all intents and purposes, I was a bona fide priest, trained and ordained in my calling and devotion to God.
However, the weight of the true reason I was here always sat heavy on my shoulders, a burden and mistake I wore like a second skin.
I fell into work heavily, nothing occurring that dragged me from the depths of my thoughts. I had several requests for financial assistance that I had to negotiate with the Diocese. I served a poor area in the Appalachians, most people having low to moderate incomes as a result of chain grocery stores and malls that eventually led to the loss of the mom and pop shops that most of the residents owned.
Small farms and pastures were being foreclosed on daily, and big industry removed the means of these people to survive. Most only had a high school education, if that, and their struggles were my biggest concern.
Just as I picked up the phone to call a larger parish regarding the needs of mine, Sister Joyce stepped into my office.
“Father Hayle, I apologize for disrupting you, but the young lady has woken and I’ve been unable to calm her.”
Looking up, I noticed the worried expression on her face. “How long has she been awake?” Glancing toward the clock, I realized that I’d been lost in my work for several hours.
“She woke only a few moments ago. She has been demanding to see you, however…”
She paused and I circled my hand in the air to hurry her along.
“She keeps referring to you as Elijah, Father. She’s adamant that she knows who you are.”