Niceandbrutal
Yes, but-
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2013
- Posts
- 2,816
At the age of 33, father Timothy McCreary had found his peace with God and the world. Growing up in a catholic orphanage in Boston after the sudden death of his parents and no close relatives to take care of him, he'd grown up as stable and healthy as could be expected. In his teens he'd rebelled and run with a pretty rough crowd for a while, then he'd joined the army the day he turned 18. He spent his time in an infantry unit in and out of Iraq and Afghanistan. It was in Afghanistan he found God. Not that he'd really ever lost him, but he found comfort in the thought of a being greater than himself, greater than everything, looking down on and watching out for everyone.
He started visiting the Army chaplain, discussing theology and questions of faith. It was these discussions that made Timothy decide that he wanted to become a priest in the catholic church. When his service contract with the army was terminated, he applied for training in the priest seminar. It was much as he'd expected it to be: Reading and interpreting biblical and apocryphic texts, more discussions of faith, how to withstand temptation, the vow of chastity. Then he was carted off to the Congo as a missionary and safety consultant for the local churches, his experience as a soldier at the sharp end of the spear coming in handy as he advised on how to make sturdy shelters for the local churches.
After a couple of years in Africa, the church felt Timothy had proven his worth and rewarded him by sending him back to the USA and Boston. He was placed in a suburban middle class parish where he was put in charge of soccer training and boxing (a hobby he'd started in the army) for the children. They'd been told of his service in the army and in Africa before his arrival and they were reserved, almost afraid of him as he entered the room for the first time. That didn't last long. Timothy loved children, always had. And it showed.
He told everyone that bothered listening to him that the key to win children over was to treat and address them as you would any person. No condescension, no inane blather. And show them that he respected them and took them seriously. Well, it had worked for him, at least. As it was, Timothy had found his niche and thrived.
There was one thing conspicuously absent from Timothy McCreary's life, though. He'd never had sexual congress with a woman. He'd been too shy as a young man, so much so that the vow of chastity had come as a relief. Later, he'd started regretting opportunities never taken in his youth. But it was all academical now, seeing as he'd sworn off life as a married man and all that entailed.
This wednesday morning started much like every other day, with training in the gym and running. Then a short prayer and breakfast before starting on the days' work for the church. (St. Anthony's church, plain and simple.) The priests in the parish had a rotation of the different priestly duties. Knowing full well that people responded differently to the different priests, they'd been helpful enough to make a list of the priests and when they had their different duties. This week, Timothy had the confessional.
Finishing his breakfast, Timothy heaved his 6' frame off the pew in the modest dining hall for the clergy. He deposited his dishes before making a detour to the bathroom. Timothy wasn't exactly a vain man, but he felt that he should be at his best when representing the church and God. His grey eyes stared back at him from the mirror, crowning a clean shaved rugged face with curly chestnut brown hair that had its first hint of gray at the temples.
A wistful smile spread across his face as he contemplated today's duty. Confessions was a necessity, but almost always frightfully dull. Bless me father, for I have sinned, it has been X time since my last confession... And then would come confessions of dreary little sins. Once or twice though, Timothy had heard confessions that made his hairs stand on end. Best not to think about that, though. Mostly it was nice little old ladies with too much time on their hand to contemplate every action they did and finding something deplorable to confess. Timothy had to check himself so he wouldn't chuckle at their petty little sins. Father, I confess to the sin of pride. I wanted everyone to know that it was me that made the best cake at the fair... et cetera. It was cute compared to what Timothy had witnessed of atrocities as a soldier and as a priest in Africa.
Once more into the breach dear friends, once more! he told himself as he entered the booth, preparing for an excruciatingly long and dull day. The first couple of hours there were no visitors, and Timothy busied himself cleaning and tidying the chapel as best he could. Every time the light went on over the confessional booth, he went inside and muttered the familiar phrases. Then he meted out the punishment and finished with "te absolvo". Five hours in, and there had been three confessions. Timothy sat in the booth, a light showing all that wanted to confess that the priest was IN. (He'd always loved Lucy as a psychiatrist in the comic "Peanuts".) Someone entered the booth. It was a woman, by the sound of it, and she was upset and crying.
After a pregnant pause, Timothy spoke: "Is there something troubling you, my child?"
He started visiting the Army chaplain, discussing theology and questions of faith. It was these discussions that made Timothy decide that he wanted to become a priest in the catholic church. When his service contract with the army was terminated, he applied for training in the priest seminar. It was much as he'd expected it to be: Reading and interpreting biblical and apocryphic texts, more discussions of faith, how to withstand temptation, the vow of chastity. Then he was carted off to the Congo as a missionary and safety consultant for the local churches, his experience as a soldier at the sharp end of the spear coming in handy as he advised on how to make sturdy shelters for the local churches.
After a couple of years in Africa, the church felt Timothy had proven his worth and rewarded him by sending him back to the USA and Boston. He was placed in a suburban middle class parish where he was put in charge of soccer training and boxing (a hobby he'd started in the army) for the children. They'd been told of his service in the army and in Africa before his arrival and they were reserved, almost afraid of him as he entered the room for the first time. That didn't last long. Timothy loved children, always had. And it showed.
He told everyone that bothered listening to him that the key to win children over was to treat and address them as you would any person. No condescension, no inane blather. And show them that he respected them and took them seriously. Well, it had worked for him, at least. As it was, Timothy had found his niche and thrived.
There was one thing conspicuously absent from Timothy McCreary's life, though. He'd never had sexual congress with a woman. He'd been too shy as a young man, so much so that the vow of chastity had come as a relief. Later, he'd started regretting opportunities never taken in his youth. But it was all academical now, seeing as he'd sworn off life as a married man and all that entailed.
This wednesday morning started much like every other day, with training in the gym and running. Then a short prayer and breakfast before starting on the days' work for the church. (St. Anthony's church, plain and simple.) The priests in the parish had a rotation of the different priestly duties. Knowing full well that people responded differently to the different priests, they'd been helpful enough to make a list of the priests and when they had their different duties. This week, Timothy had the confessional.
Finishing his breakfast, Timothy heaved his 6' frame off the pew in the modest dining hall for the clergy. He deposited his dishes before making a detour to the bathroom. Timothy wasn't exactly a vain man, but he felt that he should be at his best when representing the church and God. His grey eyes stared back at him from the mirror, crowning a clean shaved rugged face with curly chestnut brown hair that had its first hint of gray at the temples.
A wistful smile spread across his face as he contemplated today's duty. Confessions was a necessity, but almost always frightfully dull. Bless me father, for I have sinned, it has been X time since my last confession... And then would come confessions of dreary little sins. Once or twice though, Timothy had heard confessions that made his hairs stand on end. Best not to think about that, though. Mostly it was nice little old ladies with too much time on their hand to contemplate every action they did and finding something deplorable to confess. Timothy had to check himself so he wouldn't chuckle at their petty little sins. Father, I confess to the sin of pride. I wanted everyone to know that it was me that made the best cake at the fair... et cetera. It was cute compared to what Timothy had witnessed of atrocities as a soldier and as a priest in Africa.
Once more into the breach dear friends, once more! he told himself as he entered the booth, preparing for an excruciatingly long and dull day. The first couple of hours there were no visitors, and Timothy busied himself cleaning and tidying the chapel as best he could. Every time the light went on over the confessional booth, he went inside and muttered the familiar phrases. Then he meted out the punishment and finished with "te absolvo". Five hours in, and there had been three confessions. Timothy sat in the booth, a light showing all that wanted to confess that the priest was IN. (He'd always loved Lucy as a psychiatrist in the comic "Peanuts".) Someone entered the booth. It was a woman, by the sound of it, and she was upset and crying.
After a pregnant pause, Timothy spoke: "Is there something troubling you, my child?"
