Niceandbrutal
Yes, but-
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2013
- Posts
- 2,816
At the age of 36, 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, but he managed to steer clear of any real trouble. 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 again. Not that he'd really ever lost him, but the calm comfort he knew in combat stemmed from his absolute faith and devotion to his god.
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 mother church. After an honourable discharge, he got his Master of Theology at Harvard on the GI bill before entering the seminary. 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, and the vow of chastity.
After his ordination, Father McCreary went to the civil war in the Congo. For the next several years he was busy building churches and shelters for his flock as well as going about his other priestly duties. He regularly heard confessions that made his hair stand on end and he all too often performed last rites on some poor unfortunate soul that had been chewed up and spat out by one of the longest and ugliest conflicts in modern history.
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. Back in the orphanage he'd become the closest thing to a big brother many of the other kids would have and this gave Father Timothy a good rapport with children. His big secret was to never talk down to children, but to treat them as equals worthy of respect.
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 something of 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 confessions. 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.
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 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 mother church. After an honourable discharge, he got his Master of Theology at Harvard on the GI bill before entering the seminary. 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, and the vow of chastity.
After his ordination, Father McCreary went to the civil war in the Congo. For the next several years he was busy building churches and shelters for his flock as well as going about his other priestly duties. He regularly heard confessions that made his hair stand on end and he all too often performed last rites on some poor unfortunate soul that had been chewed up and spat out by one of the longest and ugliest conflicts in modern history.
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. Back in the orphanage he'd become the closest thing to a big brother many of the other kids would have and this gave Father Timothy a good rapport with children. His big secret was to never talk down to children, but to treat them as equals worthy of respect.
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 something of 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 confessions. 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.
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 crying.
After a pregnant pause, Timothy spoke: "Is there something troubling you, my child?"
