Because if God truly made me, then God also made my love for Noah.And how could something so real, so good, be a sin?
* * *
I walked up the cracked sidewalk toward St.Ignatius of Loyola Catholic Church, a squat stucco building with faded terracotta tiles and an arched entryway that looked like it had been transplanted straight from colonial Spain.Bougainvillea vines spilled over the low walls, the magenta flowers far too cheerful for the heaviness I carried inside me.
Fear gripped me like an iron band around my ribs with every step I forced up the wide stone staircase.My legs felt heavier than they had any right to be, as if my body already knew what my mind refused to admit—that walking through those doors meant opening myself to something I might not come back from.
Inside, the sanctuary was dim and cool, the scent of incense clinging to the air like old smoke.Candles flickered in iron stands against the walls.The stained-glass windows bled patches of ruby and sapphire light across the polished wooden pews.My eyes were drawn upward, inevitably, to the enormous crucifix hanging over the pulpit.
For as long as I could remember, that image had been one of comfort: Jesus with his arms stretched wide, love embodied in suffering.But now, bone-tired and raw, all I could see was the grotesque reality of it—nails driven through flesh, ribs jutting out, agony frozen in wood and paint.A sick thought wormed into my head before I could stop it: If Jesus had died by hanging, would we all be staring at a noose right now?Would we polish the rope, carve it in gold, and wear it around our necks?
The thought unsettled me so badly I dropped my gaze, ashamed.But the unease stayed, pooling in my stomach.For the first time in my life, the faith I had clung to since childhood didn’t feel like a home—it felt like clothes that didn’t fit anymore, too tight and itchy against my skin.
I heard footsteps echo softly behind me.I turned, startled, and saw an elderly priest shuffling down the aisle.His cassock was plain, his hair thin and white, and his face creased with so many lines it looked as though it had been etched by years of kindness.He gave me a small, cautious smile.
“Can I be of help, son?”he asked, his voice gentle as worn leather.
My throat worked, but no sound came out.Finally, in a trembling voice, I managed, “Father, I… I need the sacrament of confession.”
His smile deepened just a little, as though he understood more than I wanted him to.“Of course.I’m here for you.”
He slid into the pew beside me, his hands folded loosely in his lap.But the weight of his presence so close only made my skin itch with nerves.I needed distance, separation.I needed the anonymity of wood and shadow.
“Could we… do it in the confessional?”I asked.My voice cracked on the last word.“I’d feel more comfortable.”
The priest shrugged, as if it made no difference to him.“Certainly.”
We both stood.My knees nearly buckled as we crossed to the far side of the sanctuary, where a carved wooden booth stood tucked against the wall like a relic from another age.I slipped into one side, the scent of polish and incense pressing in around me.The small lattice screen divided us, blurring his outline.
I made the sign of the cross with shaking fingers, the words tumbling out of me by instinct, automatic after years of rote: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.It has been…” I faltered, shame burning my face.“It has been over a year since my last confession.”
His voice, calm and steady, came through the screen.“Take your time, my son.God is listening.”
I swallowed hard, hands twisting in my lap.I didn’t know if I was ready to tell him everything.But I had to start.I had to try.
I sat in the booth, the carved wood pressing against my back, the faint smell of old varnish and incense crowding in.My knees jittered as I waited for the words I hadn’t spoken in years.Finally, I forced my voice out, starting over again.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.It’s been… God, it’s been over a year since my last confession.”
The little wooden screen between us rattled as the priest shifted.“That’s all right, my son.Start wherever you need to.”
I drew in a ragged breath, my hands twisting together in my lap.“I—I left the seminary.I couldn’t take final vows.I knew it wasn’t right for me, but I can’t stop feeling guilty, like I failed God somehow.”
There was a pause, and then his voice came, soft but steady.“That is no sin, son.You followed your conscience.You were true to yourself.That is a holy thing.”
True to myself.The phrase struck me hard, because I’d been doing that a lot lately—ever since Noah.
I swallowed, my throat tight.“There’s… more.”My voice cracked, and I squeezed my eyes shut.“I’ve developed feelings for someone.Feelings that I can’t seem to control.”
“Love is not a sin,” the priest said gently.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head in the dark booth.“It’s not just love.It’s… it’s consuming.When I think of this person, it’s like light breaking through a stained-glass window, scattering color everywhere.It’s like the whole world finally makes sense.My heart pounds just at the thought of them.And when they smile—God, when they smile—it feels like grace itself.Like I’m finally alive, for the first time in my life.”
The priest made a small sound—an encouraging hum.
I let the silence linger for a moment before I said it, my voice barely audible.“It’s for another man.”
The air in the booth shifted.The priest cleared his throat, the sound echoing strangely in the tiny space.My stomach knotted.
