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TWENTY-NINE

Christmas Eve, Midnight Mass

BANE

The space inside the old, lofting, oiled wood church hums with anticipation, the kind of stillness that’s never truly silent—soft coughs, shuffling coats, the faint creak of old pews as sinners and saints alike take their seats.

All are welcome at Midnight Mass, the holiest of nights, wrapped in candlelight and reverence as we re-enact the wait for hope to come into the world.

I stand in the small sacristy just beyond the altar, fingers grazing the edge of my stole, grounding myself in the familiar texture. The fabric is smooth beneath my fingertips, and I wonder if tonight, at the end of things, I can make peace with this contradiction—these holy vestments worn by an unholy man.

I breathe in and breathe out, trying to meditate and connect to the divine beyond the silence. But then my phone vibrates in my pocket, an unexpected buzz slicing through the sacred quiet.

I shouldn’t check it.

I do, anyway.

It’s her.

Moira: You up?

The words are simple. Casual. But coming from her, they’re anything but innocent. My thumb hovers over the screen, pulse quickening like a drumbeat in my veins. Another vibration.

Moira: I can’t stop thinking about you. Sure I can’t sneak into your bed tonight? Or under your robes. Whichever’s easier.

I exhale sharply, the breath catching somewhere between a groan and a laugh. My body reacts before my brain catches up, cock stiffening.

It’s completely inappropriate in this moment and context. Christ. I glance through the crack in the small sacristy door, half-expecting someone to materialize and catch me sinning in plain sight. But it’s just me. Alone with the ghost of her words.

I type back quickly, fingers tense.

Me: I can’t. About to start Mass. I’ll see you tomorrow.

I don’t wait for her reply. I put the phone on airplane mode and shove it into my pocket like it’s burned me.

All calm and meditation is shattered. I can’t tuck my thoughts of her away as easily as I can the phone. Is she alright? I told her she couldn’t come over earlier, and she seemed fine. Did something happen?

I want to pull out the phone again and examine the texts. She didn’t say anything was wrong. She seemed fine. Flirty, like usual.

But with Moira, it’s always hard to tell unless I’m face-to-face with her. It’s still so new between us that every hour I’m away from her, I feel the ache of absence. The shadow of where she’s not, haunting me. Making me restless until I settle eyes on her again.

I straighten my shoulders, tugging at the stole until it sits just right over my shoulders. The weight of it feels so right.

This will be the second-to-last service I ever perform. The thought feels like both a release and a noose tightening around my neck.

Will Bane without Father Blackwood still be merciful? Still be kind? Still live by the rule of the last shall be first, and the first, last ?

Another glance through the sacristy door shows a full church. Pews always swell for this service. Friends and family are in town for the holidays, and the solemn candlelight service may be the one time a year some step foot in a holy place like this.

I have a duty to them and the Lord to feed their spirits, regardless of how restless my own is.

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

I allow a moment of stillness to empty myself.

How quickly I’ve forgotten the lessons of surrender.

I bow my head.

Not my will but thine .

And then I step through the door out onto the altar. The glow of candles cast long shadows against the aged, wooden walls.

The congregation rises, their faces lifted in expectation. I meet their gaze, one by one, anchoring myself in the ritual and the sacred duty that has defined me for so long.

Not my will but thine .

I begin the service, my voice steady even as my heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. The words are muscle memory now—prayers etched so deeply, surely they’re in the marrow of my bones by now.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”

The congregation responds, their voices a chorus that rises and falls like waves against the shore.

I deliver the readings, my voice echoing in the vast space. Scripture is a connection to faithful people throughout time and space. I close my eyes as I recite familiar words about peace and hope like well-worn grooves worn by tongues throughout the centuries.

This is all so much bigger than me, than us, here in this church that is just one tiny node among millions all over the globe celebrating hope and peace tonight. It’s called peace that surpasses all understanding.

So maybe it’s all right if I don’t understand how it will all work out.

Maybe it’s all right if, for once, for fucking once, I let go of my iron control.

Over and over, I glimpse that control is an illusion. But over and over, I clamber to grasp even tighter for the reins.

As if the dark thing inside me will ever be tamed.

I’m a fool.

It’s right that I put an end to this pious farce.

My impulse to run as far from my father might have been the right one, but I had no right to throw myself into a holy vocation that would make me a leader for anyone to follow.

I’ve learned nothing.

I ought to have been paying penance, not putting on white robes and standing up front with all eyes on me.

I was such an egotistical fool not to see the difference.

Agnes is in the front pew, and as always, her mouth presses into the disapproving line that seems permanently etched into her face. Like she’s been judging priests and finding them lacking since the Reformation.

She’s always seen right through me, hasn’t she?

Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, rosary beads slipping between her fingers with practiced devotion.

I feel a rush of affection for her. For all of them.

They’re imperfectly living lives of frail faith. Most people who step foot in a church eventually learn to get good at pretending, but how could I shepherd them when I’m the biggest pretender of all?

So, as I move into the sermon, one of the last I know I’ll ever give, I try to say something honest for once.

“You’ve all been so kind to me in my few years serving you. I’ve been a foolish young man stumbling around trying to find my way, pretending I could offer any wisdom when the decades you all have on me humble me. Sometimes I feel like nothing at all.”

I swallow hard and look down, my careful notes blurring in front of my eyes. I’m supposed to offer wisdom, guidance—a glimpse of something divine. Laughable, considering how obscure everything has seemed of late.

All I can speak about is what I do know.

“Tonight is a night celebrating hope born into the world. I imagine it’s hope that’s brought most of us to church in the first place. Either that or your grandma dragged you along.”

Some chuckles come from the crowd.

I look from face to face in my congregation, abandoning my notes. “We’ve all faced struggles in our life. Dark times when it felt like there was no way out. I know I have. And when I was at my most desperate and hopeless, pleading to what felt like an unkind universe for help, it felt like something answered back.”

Heads nod. I’m not the only one who’s experienced this. Of course, I’m not.

“Hope returned, just when all was lost. A hand was extended. A kind word offered. Or we might find that light within ourselves from a well we thought was exhausted to help us through for just one more day . And then one more after that. And then another.”

My hands clutch the edges of the lectern as I lean forward. “God’s love comes to us in all kinds of unexpected ways. It’s as fragile as it is fierce. Like God Himself being born into this world as a baby in a dirty barn. Like losing all your worldly possessions but finding the kind of love that survives even when everything else falls apart.”

The words nearly tangle in my throat.

Because, holy shit, I love her .

I love Moira. Not just the chaos of her and not just the way she makes me feel alive—but all of her . Even the parts that scare me.

Just because of who she is.

She showed up like a miracle in my life, and I love her.

I barely manage to keep my hands steady while I move through the rest of the service.

I have to call her. I’ll drive home tonight after all; I don’t care if I only get an hour of sleep before tomorrow’s morning service.

Finally, we get to the service’s last tradition—the Midnight Mass candlelight benediction.

The lights dim slowly, leaving the sanctuary bathed only in the faint flicker of candlelight from the altar. I step forward, holding the single flame that will spread from person to person like a ripple across water.

“Light shines in the darkness,” I say softly, my voice carrying even in the hush. “And the darkness has not overcome it.”

I light Agnes’s candle, watching as she turns to pass the flame along. A soft glow blooms in the darkness—fragile yet unstoppable. One small light grows into a sea of flame.

The organ begins the first gentle notes of Silent Night .

Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright…

The congregation sings, voices blending, soft and reverent. I watch their faces bathed in golden light—hope flickering in fragile flames.

And as I stand there, holding my own candle, the warmth of it trembling in my hands?—

I see her.

Moira.

I gasp and blink, looking again as if my eyes have deceived me. My candle flickers with my sudden inhale of breath.

But it’s her, standing at the very back of the church, just beyond the last row of pews. She’s holding a candle, but she’s not dressed for church. Her curly hair is wild and untamed, catching the faint glow of candlelight like a halo gone rogue. Her coat is slightly crooked, and though warm candlelight blooms on her cheeks and forehead, her eyes are shadows.

How long has she been here?

The moment our eyes meet, it feels like the world stops spinning. Like every note of Silent Night fades into nothing, leaving only the pounding of my heart.

She doesn’t move. Just stands there, her gaze locked on mine, her expression unreadable—something between defiance and longing.

I swallow hard, the candle trembling slightly in my hand.

I shouldn’t look.

But I can’t look away.

The hymn comes to an end, the final note lingering like a held breath.

“Go in peace,” I say softly, my voice rough around the edges.

The congregation responds, but I don’t hear them.

Because all I can see is her as the congregants file out, lights held aloft in their hands.

Moira.

Maybe faith was never about choosing between darkness and light.

Maybe it’s about learning to stand in both. Night and day in harmony.

And as I extinguish my candle, I feel the glow.

Not from the flame.

From her.

I step forward once more. Toward her. Toward hope.