He dipped his middle finger into the holy water and touched it to his face as we left St. Paul's Cathedral on New Year's Eve. I smiled to Father Charles and passed the baptismal without a second glance. The water was still and shining in the marble bowl, but when his fingers breeched the surface it rippled and swirled like any other liquid.
Must you be so holy? Must you, to be able to touch the water and make it seem so ordinary again? I was sure he was holy enough, good enough, but not me.
We laced our hands together and blessed water wet the spaces between my fingers and his. We climbed down from God's great house and I admired the structure from the sidewalk. Our breath made ghosts around us but neither of us said anything. The wind whipped through the space between our bodies, sending shivers up my bare legs.
I let the silence sink in for a moment as I pondered deep in my heart. Mary's motherhood, Joseph's disconnection with his only love, his helplessness. While Mary shined in God's hands, Joseph passed by, admired her with reverence--and shame.
Was it shame? What was in Joseph's heart as he looked at Mary? Did he see how pure she was? Did he see how she smiled and moved and how blessed she was? Did his heart sink like a rock in his chest when he realized that she was good?
What did Mary see in Joseph when she looked back?
We walked the next three blocks to the car. My shoes made the only sound between us, counting my steps against the cobblestones. I counted with them and wondered at his warmth next to me, avoided his gaze.
But, Joseph loved Mary. Of that, I was sure.
He opened the passenger door for me, smiled and his eyes were thankful. For what, I can't be certain, but I knew he saw my shame, my questions, and he told me I was wonderful.
Wonderfully disconnected.
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