Out Of The Habit

Of all the flock in my care, Sister Alice is the most troubled. She’s running from something. Hiding from her past. Always has. From the little I've been able to encourage her to share over the years, I can't say I blame her.

Even from that first night she showed up at the church door, all blotchy-eyed and sniveling with torn clothes, I thought twice about letting her in. It wasn't solely the Catholic cross tattooed on the back of her right hand that gave me pause. I could sense unrest. Conflict.

But God doesn't judge. God forgives. God offers sanctity and redemption. A chance to shed the shackles of any previous existence, any mistakes, whatever walk of life, and start again with a fresh slate.

So we took her in. Nurtured her. Rebuilt her confidence and sought to temper the flames of desire that clawed at her insides.

Over time, her life turned around. She took her vows. Performed missionary work with vulnerable adults in the community. Became a figurehead of virtue, yet never truly fit in.

She was prone to bouts of silence. Perhaps never fully escaped her demons. And Lord only knows what she did to herself behind closed doors. We all heard the lashes and stifled cries after hours, but any marks remained hidden.

I always held the impression there was something bubbling away behind those soulful eyes. A darkness. As if she was forged from the very same volcanic activity that spat out the dazzling peridot that circled her pupils.

If the eyes truly are windows to the soul, Sister Alice is a cauldron of repressed need that's ripe for rekindling. The late-night self-flagellations have ceased, her demeanour has altered and I’ve become increasingly worried that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

Today, it seems, is that day.

Sunday. Of course.

Mass is over, the meet and greet from the congregation done. I was in my office penning the next sermon before she knocked and sashayed in with the kind of purpose that would shame diplomats. Immaculate, as always, but with ruby lipstick and a dark eyeliner to accentuate her long, natural lashes. The shadows formed by the fat candles on the shelves behind me give the illusion of mascara, but she wears none.

Less than a minute later, she's coaxed me from behind my desk and kneels before me. Her ceremonial scapular is not draped over her tunic, and she's gazing up at me like God is but a secondary idol. Seeking approval she knows I cannot sanction for the acts I know she craves.

I most certainly do not approve of the way she’s removed her guimpe and opened the wimple shrouding her head to reveal the heavy cross nestled in her creamy cleavage, hanging from a choker. Nor do ...