This is going to be very, very different. Spiritual, even. I'm not sure if you people will enjoy it but hell, I'm writing it so I'll just keep it here. Different frame of mind, different life.

Stability. This little church, lost on the side of the busy street, always seemed to watch over wanderers without ever ageing. Its white stones, eaten away by rain and pollution, still stood despite the centuries. Despite the deliquescence of the religion that had, once, reigned over the western part of the world. Despite the fact that men had stopped believing in HIM and his principles, wreaking havoc in the world without ever realising how far they'd strayed from the path of righteousness. Had generosity, grace, love becomes a foreign concept? Had money replaced honour? Possession crushed fairness of the mind?

How did they survive, the people that still chose this religious path, in such a world?

Frances watched, eyes squinted against the sunlight, the tall building that so often caught her gaze when she went to the city centre. There, like a rock, but invisible to the world. She wasn't a religious woman; far from it. At home, she'd heard more antireligious pamphlets that she could have found in leftist newspapers. Daughter of a communist and a socialist, granddaughter of a man who's forbidden the clergy to lay hand on his son – her father – under the pretext that he had brains. He would be an engineer, not a scholar in an institution of lies! Vade Retro, Catholic Church!

But today… Today her feet carried her over the threshold of the gothic structure. Her grandmother's plea, echoing in the back of her brain, begging to share the joy she had once felt whenever she set foot in the small parish church. A way to honour this side of the family; unknown people only mentioned in yearly gatherings.

Music greeted her ears, a pure sound of male voices echoing against the walls – just a recording. There was no coldness, and Frances slowly walked forward, surprised to feel at ease. The house of God had been so often castigated in her parents' house… Multicoloured lights filtered through the simple stained glasses, landing every fifteen feet; her path was clear. The voices accompanied her on the way, coaxing softly, gliding around her like little fairies, intertwined in a lament that touched her so deeply that her eyes tingled. Was it the strength of their faith that gave so much power to those people, even when they were not present?

Her shoes were silent on the stones polished by hundreds of faithful in a not so distant past. Today remained only a handful, sitting or kneeling under the arches of the transept. Frances eventually found an icon of the Virgin Mary, a marble statue of no great beauty. At her feet shone dozens of candles; prayers from believers. What had they been thinking whenever they alighted one?

Without hesitation, Frances dropped her bag on the wooden bench to fish out a coin that she slid into the slit. The metal clanged in the empty box that received the donations, echoing against the empty walls. The young woman stilled her hand, peeking around her to make sure she'd not disturbed the peace. No one in sight. Phew.

Her hand trembled as she chose a candle, the flame flickering slightly when she tipped it to light the wick. Just a second before it caught, barely a moment for her to ponder on her wish. Why had she lit that candle? Grandma was dead, and despite the fact that Frances didn't believe in any God, her ancestor did. Sitting on the bench, the young woman watched the flame burn amongst dozens of others, their tiny light flickering with the barest of drafts.

Tears of longing came to her eyes. How she missed her, that woman who had been so important in her life. Just a presence, with funny stories to count, and faith in a God that no one believed in. A weird accent that could have sent her worst teachers into peals of laughter, perhaps Kant himself. What was the difference, really, between followers that blindly looked up to God and philosophers that intended to teach the world to others without ever setting a foot out of their garden?

Who was right? Who was wrong? Grandma never pondered on those things, living her life modestly, never prone to gossip. No car, one house – her own grandmother's – a few rabbits and a set of relatives that had slimed over the years. A woman born in 1921, who had seen war and death, life and simple village gatherings. A woman who bought her meat from the butcher that rounded the village, and her bread likewise. Not even wondering if the goods were better in another place. Again, a simple life that made her happy.

Happy, really? Well, she wasn't unhappy. Her only fear; to be admitted in the hospice where she'd worked during the war. For many years, she never set a foot there. And on the day that the doctor sent her there … she never came back. Like a prophecy. Grandma knew her demise rested beyond those blasted swishing doors. Was it wisdom, or old women's tales?

The truth was that Frances would never know. But she missed her all the same. Society had changed, the world became crazier by the year. The young woman was rather glad her grandmother wasn't here to witness it all. But here, five years after her death, she still missed her. Tears leaked slid down her cheeks, unhindered; if she didn't shed them here, she never would. The lights mingled into stars through the veil of wetness, and for a moment, it almost felt like watching a clear sky.

— "Are you all right?"

The hushed tone didn't prevent Frances from starting on the bench, her heart racing. The accented voice came from her right, but she had trouble distinguishing anything through her tears.

— "Forgive me, I thought you had seen me."

Smooth, with a gentle lilt, his voice was strangely soothing. Had she not been so ashamed of her tears, Frances might have leant over to ask for more. Blinking them away, she titled her head to face the stranger. Clad in the traditional robes adorned with a white collar, a tall man had detached from the shadows of the pillars to approach her. He seemed hesitant, his posture laid-back. From his face, she could only distinguish the high cheekbones and beard that hid his chin.

— "Can I help you?" he eventually said, taking a step forward.

— "Ah … no. I'm afraid not."

The candles flickered wildly as if spooked by his approach, but they shed some light on the stranger. Frances took in his tall stature, and the surprising proud posture on a man of cloth before her eyes settled on his brown hair neatly combed to the side. Frances' thoughts returned to her grandmother, her eyes settling upon her hands.

— "I just … miss her."

And the tears started leaking again. The man approached then sat beside her, giving her space as he watched the candles burn people's wishes and prayers away. Trying to rein her sobs, Frances bit her lip. He didn't move for a long time, a gentle presence, a friend watching over her in grief until she found her voice.

— "I should go," she eventually hiccoughed.

How pitiful she sounded, but the priest by her side only offered her a pristine handkerchief of white cotton. Frances took it shyly, her eyes meeting his for the first time. In the uneven light of the church, they seemed almost grey.

— "If my presence unsettles you, I can leave you in peace."

There was no judgement nor dismissal in his tone – not even a touch of reproach – but red rose to her cheeks nonetheless. Fearing she had hurt his feelings – priest were human beings after all, right? —Frances rushed to explain herself. Her voice felt rough, her words even harsher.

— "No, don't. I just … I never believed in God, nor did my family."

There, it seemed even worse said like that but Frances was never one to lie. And, hidden in the shadows of the pillars, she felt too exhausted to tiptoe around the truth.

— "So you feel this is not your place?"

The priest watched her now, his eyes curious. Open. Devoid of hurt, or anger, or even indignation. There was such wisdom in his gaze, even though he didn't look more than thirty. Something in the way he voiced his thoughts, without an ounce of threat or ego. With the certainty of the truth. As if his soul was thousands of years old.

— "Yeah, maybe," she sighed.

— "God doesn't care much about who believes, or who doesn't. We are all his children."

Silence met his statement, and for a moment neither of them talked. Until she blurted out:

— "But do you?"

A genuine smile quirked the man's lips, hidden by his beard … a goatee, actually, now that she paid attention.

— "I would be quite presumptuous to override God's will," was his smooth reply.

Frances chuckled then, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. For a priest, he certainly had a sense of humour.

— "Your logic do you honour, father…"

— "Tristan. I am father Tristan"

An ancient name, for an ancient soul, she thought.

— "Frances"

The priest only nodded to acknowledge her presentation, and she wondered at his silence. Shyness? Surely not, for he seemed at ease. Like a man of God, intent on guiding a stray sheep back to the fold. She used to despise those men, accusing them of being short-sighted, finding them blind to the world and the reality of things. But here, surrounded by ethereal voices and flickering candles, her rational mind felt weaker than at the university.

His voice, one more, called her back to the present.

— "So what's the story of that candle?"

Frances took a heavy breath, willing for her eyes to stop stinging. But the pain was still raw, the wound never closed. Would acceptance come, someday, and the merry moments populate her memories rather than the harshness of her absence?

— "I just miss her. I wanted to be close to her, to understand her faith."

Her voice was barely a whisper; father Tristan only cocked his head aside.

— "Who was she?" he asked gently.

— "My father's mother… Grandma," she stuttered.

— "I take it you don't come often."

Frances blinked at his attempt at conversation. His smooth voice acted like a balm on her pain, as if, no matter what he said, solace seeped into her bones. For a moment, she wondered if the man was human and not a mystical being, an angel hiding under the frock. One quick glance with her blurry eyes, and she realised he was expecting an answer. Uh.

— "I … Yeah. The last time I set foot in a church was to bury her. Five years ago"

Another silence settled, neither awkward nor long enough for them to feel like breaking it. But Frances wanted to know; why her grandma always chastised her for swearing in the name of God.

— "Why do people come to church, Father?"

The priest's eyebrows rose high, and Frances realised they barely existed. As if they'd been drawn, and blurred afterwards. He wasn't expecting her question, and seemed to think for a while. Good; he wasn't one to answer with platitudes.

— "People come to pray. To think. To clear their minds or simply rest it from a burdensome life. Sometime they come to address the heavens in hope they will guide us."

And despite the shudder than ran up her spine, Frances scoffed. What if people interpreted things the way they wanted to?

— "Do they ever answer?" she replied with an ironic smile.

Father Tristan ignored her impertinent tone, his eyes rising to the stained glasses that flooded the nave with light. A wistful expression settled on his features, something … almost mystical. Then his hazel eyes returned to her, a discreet smile quirking his lips.

— "You'd be surprised. Sometimes, it feels that they do."

— "Right"

What else could she possibly say? That she didn't believe it? That she judged all those people stupid, or naïve for thinking that another could take decisions in their stead? That the world was such an ugly place that no God could ever condone it? That if the almighty existed, he could have prevented slavery, cruelty, disease and hunger to roam the world? What her parents had taught swept all those theories, burying them into the cold, hard ground. Take care of yourself, better you mind, help your friends and do not ever let someone else take control of your life. Frances was an intelligent woman – so much that her mind refused to relent, even at night. No peace for the brainiacs.

But the solace she found in this church … this was unexpected. What if …?

— "Have you ever recited an Ave Maria?"

Startled, Frances frowning at the priest.

— "No, I don't even know the words."

Father Tristan stood, extending his open hand to the statue. Only then did she realise how tall he was.

— "Come. Maybe your grandmother will look upon you from the heavens."

Frances stood, uneasy. Her eyes darted to the exit unconsciously, but father Tristan watched her intently, his face carved in stone. Daring her to fall back. Yet, his gaze was soft.

— "You have chosen Mary, after all, to light the candle."

Touché. Shrugging, Frances took a step forward, facing the plain marble carving who represented the Virgin Mary.

— "She is the mother…"

— "Of Jesus. This I know"

— "Good. She is also mother to us all, and knows the pain of losing our loved ones. Her heart is full of compassion."

Frances could only nod, wondering if she'd ever tell to her parents that she had prayed to a marble statue. Father Tristan stood by her side, his face now entirely dedicated to the icon. His high cheekbones stood out, his features seemingly carved in stone.

— "Repeat after me," he said.

Then he paused.

— "English or Latin?"

His tone was so casual, as if he'd asked whether she preferred vanilla or chocolate. Obviously, the man spoke Latin. Well … it would certainly feel more authentic in the original version, even though her knowledge of this ancient language was just acceptable. But Frances loved her movies in original version – to keep its soul – and would rather miss the meaning rather than break it altogether.

— "Latin, please"

If Father Tristan was surprised by her response, he did not show it, already lost in the trance that had engulfed him, he started the prayer in smooth tones. And Frances did repeat, one word after the other.

"Ave Maria,

Gratia plena,

Dominus tecum."

His voice detached every word, music to her ears.

"Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus."

And as the words passed her lips, her body started to warm up, her fingers tingling with an odd sensation of plenitude. As if something was filling her up, coming from the top of her head and descending into her body like a wave.

"Sancta Maria,

Mater Dei,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae."

Frances shuddered then, and a warm blanket came to rest upon her shoulders, as if someone was hugging her … almost like an embrace. Emotions repressed surfaced, and tears slid down her cheeks anew. Unbidden, unstoppable, bleeding from a block oppressing her chest; the weight of many sorrows. She could not finish the prayer, struggling to keep her façade as father Tristan's smooth voice said the words. The lump in her throat was so big, her breath hitching, her chest painfully constricting from too much energy, too much love.

When he turned to her, she knew what he expected. His eyes were curious and worried at the same time, his face almost elated. But Frances was barely breathing.

— "Amen" she whispered, her voice mingling with his own.

The young woman staggered back, her legs hitting the bench. His long hands extended by reflex but she shied away, regaining her balance fast enough to snatch her handbag.

— "Thank you, father Tristan," she whispered unevenly.

Then she fled.

— "You are welcome, little one," he whispered back, stunned by the strength of her reaction.

As she walked … no, almost ran to the exit, father Tristan frowned. Her little hand was clutching his handkerchief. At least, she would have this little piece of cloth to remind her that spirituality was not to be ignored. A chance it was his best one, and not one of the horrible tissues with tartans of greys and reds. He needed to accept to let her go, just like the faithful that sometimes came and went on with their lives.

Yet, this uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach told him this experience was going to have a huge impact on his life. He needed to seek guidance and pray.

The second time Frances set foot in the church, Father Tristan was nowhere to be seen. It didn't matter, for she was only there to pass a message to her grandmother. Lighting up a candle, she took the time to remember fondly the moments they had shared together. And despite the tears still spilling from her eyes, she didn't feel sad when she left. Her heart, strangely, felt full of her grandmother's memories.

And so, whenever she went into town, Frances also took a moment to look at the façade of the church she had ignored for years. Sometimes, she stepped in, and sat on the bench in front of Marie. Other times, she just sent a thought to her grandma, and wished her well up there. Today, roughly two months and a half after first passing the threshold, her feet didn't ask her if she was willing to spend some time inside the now familiar house of God. They just walked in.

Frances was greeted by a deep voice that echoed inside the empty church, sending strange echoes into her heart. Frowning, the young woman stopped in her tracks before she could overcome the stoup. She wasn't a religious woman, and despite everything she had read recently, still disliked what the catholic church and the Popes had rained upon Europe and its people in the past. Yet… those voices, raining from the loudspeakers fixed on the pillars touched her.

Something stirred within her soul. The strange smell of hot, scorching air laden with dirt seemed to surround her. The smell of a desertic place, barely keeping the sand at bay as it tried to survive. The voices filled the transept, lonely, yet attuned to each other, creating a litany that didn't reach the point of a melody. Not a song… a lament. A lament for people who would, as soon as they passed the doors, get lost in the immensity of the desert that hosted Jerusalem.

Frances blinked, shaking out of her reverie. As usual, the church was nearly deserted except for a few faithful praying in the chapels. But in the midst of the dancing voices, Father Tristan stood tall before the altar. His back was to her, his hands clasped behind him, perfectly motionless. Despite the eeriness of the moment and his imposing presence, the young woman cracked; she'd seen Equilibrium this week end – her boyfriend enjoyed movies - and the sheer posture of the man reminded her of the ecclesiast. Stifling her laugh, the young woman watched in horror as the man turned around. She found herself once more rooted to the spot under the intensity if his penetrating gaze, but managed a weak smile. The faint rise of his eyebrows told her he recognized her, and when he started walking down the aisle, she wondered if it was too late to hide.

The movie came back to her full force as she watched his purposeful strides, the cassock nearly flying around his ankles. She'd never seen a man of the cloth move with such energy, and the smile returned as she averted her eyes. Truth be told, father Tristan had nothing to envy to Christian Bale. And there were so many buttons on this frock, a crossover between Severus Snape's attire and the Equilibrium look. This time, Frances had to bite her lip. Unfortunately, father Tristan caught on her mirth and didn't give her time to hide it.

— "Good afternoon, Frances. I am glad to see such an expression on your face, what brough that smile about ?"

Blushing furiously, the young woman was so embarrassed that she didn't even remark that father Tristan have remembered her name. Unable to form a lie, she gave him a sly look before blurting out.

— "You made me think of Christian Bale in Equilibrium. Do you practice martial arts ?"

Was it the comparison or the question that took him off guard, but for a moment, his careful poise seemed shaken. Then his composure returned, his shoulder settling comfortably in a non-threatening posture.

— "As a matter of fact, I do", he retorted with a sly smile.

Frances' chocolate eyes opened wide, betraying her surprise.

— "You do ?"

— "Yes. Tai-chi. I teach to the youngsters of the foyer down the street, it helps them focus"

Frances cocked her head aside; she knew Aikido, but not Tai-Chi. Chinese to Japanese, what would be the difference ? Before she could ask, though, father Tristan wanted to know more about this Christian Bale's comparison.

— "But come, you must tell me about this movie"

Relieved that he didn't take offense about her laughter, Frances followed him to the Marie bench, as she had dubbed it. Funny, how he seemed to remember everything of their previous encounter.

— "Are you interested in movies, father Tristan ?"

— "Yes, I am."

The conversation was hushed, and Frances couldn't help but remark how he was a man of few words. Would it be off limits to ask her boyfriend for the file of Equilibrium ? Thinking of it, it probably still lingered on her desktop; she had not taken the time to clean it yet.

— "It doesn't play in theatres anymore. But if you own a computer, I can probably get it for you on a USB device"

There was no need to talk about illegal downloading, right ? How attuned to the outside world a man of the cloth could be ? Where did he live ? What people did he meet ? What were his hobbies ? Suddenly, Frances realized that she was neck down into preconceptions; nowadays, priests didn't live like monks of old, hidden in a monastery.

Father Tristan nodded to her.

— "It would be enjoyable. But I don't want to impose"

— "Oh, it won't be a problem. I'll bring it about the next time I pass through here."

The priest gave her a discreet smile before silence settled, the voices of the lament capturing much of Frances' attention as they drifted in the quiet church, echoing along the walls. Her gaze roamed over the soft stones of the building, marvelling that, hundred of years before her time, the faithful had put so much effort and skill into shaping such a magnificent piece of work. To lift stones that weighed several tons, and position them accurately without the help of modern techniques. Even in a simple, small church like this one, pillars were carved, and the acoustics was such that the voices seemed to respond to each other. Who would do such a thing except for people that genuinely believed in the mightiness of God ?

On a whim, Frances turned to the silent figure beside her.

— "Can you tell me about what you believe in ?"

The priest addressed her a speculative look, gentle, yet wary. In the dim light of the church, she couldn't determine whether his eyes were brown or grey.

— "What would you like to know ?"

Puzzled, Frances bit her lip under the intensity of his gaze. That man had such presence that it sent her mind into turmoil. A last, she sheepishly admitted that she had no idea.

— "I don't know. I just wanted someone to tell me what faith is, because obviously people have slaved over this church, so they must have believed strongly"

Father Tristan's eyes roamed over the stones and halls, displaying his high cheekbones as his mind followed her reasoning. The moment his lips parted, he enchanted her with the story of God and religion, of faith and the intimate knowledge that, somewhere, up there, someone was watching over them. Call them angels, or God, guardians or guides, Marie, Jesus, Petrus or St Jean. And while his smooth voice led her to paths she had never considered – or mocked beforehand – Frances chose, this time, not to close her mind. She tried to bite her snarky comments about the bitterness of religion, relishing instead in the awed look that sometimes overcame father Tristan's features as he turned to the altar. To the light. Telling her that God had designs for all of them, greater than theirs, and that every trial that came our way had a purpose to cause them to grow.

To this, Frances eventually bristled, the intensity of her young years refusing to accept such a thing.

— "You mean to say that children dying of hunger, people being killed in wars, tortured, car accidents, babies loosing their parents are God's will ? How could he design such suffering ?"

Her indignation didn't rattle father Tristan and she observed as he seemed to gather his thoughts to answer truthfully. It probably wasn't the first time people expressed their doubts, and she felt bad for pushing so violently. Was she being disrespectful ?

— "I understand how such violence could turn someone away from God. Deep down, I just know that I am not privy to the heavens's plans for humanity, and unable to understand the full design. What if those deaths were necessary for people to understand the value of life ? What if humans only thrived to the light in darkness ?"

Puzzled, Frances cocked her head aside, willing her indignation to abate and her heart rate to even out. If she wanted to have an adult's discussion, perhaps it was time to try a change of point of view.

— "You mean, like a contrast ?"

Father Tristan squinted his eyes slightly, showing that he was reflecting on her analysis. She liked the way he took his time before answering, as if the now and then was the only thing on his mind. Or perhaps he was only giving her his full attention, as he would for every other parishioner coming his way. In any case, that strange slowness seemed to drape her shoulders in comfort, allowing Frances' full attention to delve on the theology debate. So when at last, her neighbour's smooth voice graced her ears again, Frances almost started.

— "Perhaps, yes. People have such potential for selfishness, just as much as for solidarity. But it expresses in difference circumstances"

Drawn into the debate again – her brain kickstarting full force - she lifted an ironic eyebrow.

— "I see your point. In hostile environment, the sense of community is mandatory. But that would mean that humans should be pressed in horrible places in order to show their better side ? That gives little faith into humanity"

Frances almost cringed; she was playing devil's advocate; she was the first to claim how little she believed in humanity. This world was crazy, lead by greedy men that didn't give a damn about others. But father Tristan didn't react to her rightful indignation, responding to hostility with a shrug.

— "Perhaps not. As I said before, I try to do my part, and leave the rest to God"

Did this man ever lose his temper ? Somehow, she didn't want to know… yet she couldn't prevent herself from digging a little further. It was the first time she faced a true believer that didn't shoot her arguments with a flick of his hand, and he knew what he was talking about. That man had studied religion after all.

— "Some things are just so inconsistent in religion…"

Amber eyes turned to her, honestly interested.

— "Such as ?"

Frances bit her lip, suddenly very aware that every single misgiving she had about religion was going to tumble from her lips. The gates were open, and she hope the priest would be able to contain its flow.

— "The inquisition ? Crusades. Heretics ? Burning witches that were in fact healers ? Accepting to kill a pregnant woman if she's less than three months along, when fundamentalists yell at doctors that accept abortion."

Eyes blazing, Frances realized that her chest was getting tight yet she continued.

— "Burning the Cathares because they believed differently… There's just so much there we should be ashamed of, so many horrors done in the name of religion"

Father Tristan accepted her anger, choosing to pin her with his intense gaze rather than avoid it. To acknowledge it rather than flee. And once he was sure she was finished, he kept his eyes strained upon her face. Frances took a deep breath in hopes of chasing away the strange weight that had settled on her chest, signaling that she was finally done with her rant. She was now fully available to hear the priest's answer, and hope she had not ruffled his feathers too strongly. The man, though, seemed perfectly calm as he responded:

— "There had been shameful things done in the name of religion. Times when Jesus's teachings were forgotten. My opinion is that people who choose to hurt others, no matter how, no matter in whose name, have lost their way."

Well. That was new. Mulling over his words - not truly an apology of his own organization, but close enough – Frances' eyebrows rose high upon her forehead as the priest's gaze turned to Marie.

— "I can't atone for this, but I do my best to welcome and care for believers."

— "I don't think there's much else that can be done anyway", Frances grumbled.

Her fake ill-humor called a very tiny smile to his lips, and she was surprised by the gleam in his eyes when he turned back to her.

— "And what do you believe in, Frances ?"

What did she believe in, truly ? Not in geology, physics and maths, that was for sure. Not in the so called elite of this world, for she now knew how twisted those were. Neither in the goodwill of politics and school teachers, nor in the profit they kept on trying to instill. No. After all those years of hard work to become an engineer, she realized that she didn't believe in high education anymore. True, it gave her the means to understand and analyze the worlds better than others… but it also showed her how cold and calculating those intelligent people were.

Where had humanity gone ? Was it empathy, or sympathy that she missed the most in this God forsaken shool ? Or truthfulness, maybe. Honour, perhaps. All those things long gone when money had seized the world, and the need to thrive and show your worth to the world replaced gentleness. So it wasn't too difficult, in the end, to respond father Tristan.

— "I believe in empathy, goodness of intentions. Of doing our best no matter the circumstances. I believe in wisdom, and taking care of those who are close to us."

The priest gave her a discreet smile, the slight change of expression brightening his face.

— "Then we are not so different. Most of those are principles are the core of Christianity."

Puzzled, Frances could only relent. He had her there.

— "You won this round, father Tristan", she breathed out.

The man only nodded.

— "It never is a matter of winning, but sharing. I am glad your questions were answered"

This evening, she left the church with the certitude that maybe, she wasn't such an atheist after all.

I advise, as you read this, to listen to Clamavi de Profundis Lamentations of Jeremiah, 1:10-14.