Sunday Mischief and Sacred Bonds

I’d shift in my stiff robe, restless feet shuffling, while Father Hume’s eyes pressed into me, his brows weaving silent sermons as the homily waited. Incense drifted like a lazy question mark, and I leaned in, half-grinning, “Father, is this heaven’s scent?” A sigh escaped him, burdened with a thousand Sundays, his gaze lifted, seeking patience somewhere unseen. “Patrick, not now,” he’d murmur, words steeped in hope and grit. Once, during the pause of Eucharist, I edged the chalice too far, wine leaping in a crimson arc, his fingers snatched at linen, a muttered plea, half-swallowed, “Lord, save this boy before I must.” Candles guttered to low flames, silence sealed the church in solemn breath, and I’d mime questions that tangled reason, “Father, if angels sneeze, do they bless themselves?” A twitch in his jaw betrayed him, a battle lost to a hidden smile, safeguarded for a moment when no one saw. Each Sunday, my script unfolded anew, his scolds met with nods, my repentances shallow, yet between the lines of rebuke and grin, there was always a spark, a truth that held its place— the man of the cloth and the boy, keeping faith warm, simply by being there.