Â§hria's Spot

Father Higgins is 79 and a half. He has a voice that rings clear and strong as a country church bell calling the faithful to worship early on a cold, crisp, autumn morning. I am not one of the faithful.

At 79 and a half, Father Higgins also seems to have a mind as sharp as ever and a face tattooed deeply by hand of time. The beauty of the lines on his face is hard to look at because it breaks all the rules. It is disturbing to see such beauty and frankness in the face of an old priest from of a faith other than my own. Or so I thought.

Last night I dreamed of a horse. The dappled brown horse had huge staring eyes of the palest grey-green. It gazed unblinking at me through the dream, waiting to see what I will do.

Finally I woke with a start. Those were Father Higgins' eyes.

The disturbance I felt while interviewing him came not from the attraction and fear of the lines on his face but from his eyes. It was the frank assessment, the blank canvass of his eyes that disturbed me.

The man has a way of looking inside you without and asking what ever question needs to be asked an unblinking gaze. He said it isn't him. He said it is the Holy Spirit working through him. He said the Holy Spirit could make a work of art from a rusty nail.

I squirmed. I reasoned. I ran. But his gaze followed me into my dreams.

When you set a dry cloth on one full of water, by morning the dry one will be wet as well. Sometimes knowing is like that too. It seeps across from the one who has it to the one who needs it, irresistibly filling the receiver to saturation.

Then, in the middle of the night through the blank-canvas eyes of a horse, it asks, 'What are you going to do?'

'I am not one of the faithful!' is my answer as I run to the coldness of logic in the yard behind the church.

There is always a wild and overgrown patch of mysterious ground somewhere behind every country church. That is where I go. Every time there is a calling and the faithful go in to worship and be healed, I run to the wilderness to be alone.

I am not worthy of love. I am not deserving of healing or forgiveness. This is my faith. This is my mantra.

An example of the evidence of this is love itself.

About three years ago I was standing in the yard behind the church listening to the faithful sing. I craved their company. I wanted to be one of them. I was ready to walk into the church and try, really try, to believe I was worthy of love. I wanted, more than ever, to be one of the faithful.

While making my faltering way toward the big front door awash in the golden glow of the rising sun I met a man.

His voice was clear and rang like a bell on Sunday morning. His eyes were green and deep like a cool pond. Inviting, curious and open. His hands were sure and sensual at his guitar and he moved with a grace I wanted to bask in. As I drew nearer to him, watching and listening, I fell in love.

Then his wife stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him. He turned from me and I was forgotten. Not even worthy of friendship, let alone the deep intimacy of partner love. My heart followed them a few steps into the church reveling in their joy. 'At least some people can be happy.' I thought as the door closed in my face. The thought comforted me for a little while.

It's about denial. My body is grotesque and my heart is disfigured by the abuse I have suffered and in turn wrought upon myself. All this ugly has seeped to the surface and been etched upon my face. No doubt he was the last one to even glance at me in passing. I must deny my body the food it craves and my heart the company it needs because that is what my withered soul deserves.

That is what I will do as I shiver alone and afraid in the yard behind the church. Deny everything while I wait in wretched hope for the man with the guitar to come out and talk to me a little longer.

Father Higgins with your voice of hope and your eyes of anticipation, you have no idea how much I wish I could be one of the faithful. To have rested in the belief that I was worthy of him, or even of someone like him, would have been all the comfort I needed.

I am cold.