Daily Writing Challenge 2026

M2: The Meeting Chapter (875 words)

My brother was the chosen one, not me. It wasn’t my destiny to become a priest, but it was my choice. My “path “was to take me to smoky, dark bars where I would be a great jazz musician, playing my sax. But when I received the Call, I answered. Now I play my sax just for myself, in my rooms in the rectory. After ten years ministering in this small parish, I don’t even remember the old life I had envisioned and given up. I enjoyed teaching the elementary students’ religious education, coaching the basketball team and being supportive. My life never seemed pointless. The sacrifices were all worth the satisfaction I experienced in my purpose.

I was, however, a thorn in the side of the two older priests here at St. Ann’s Church. My views about women participation in the church was nothing short of revolutionary. Father Petrocelli, the pastor, who had been here thirty years and incidentally had presided over my own initiation sacraments, believed in the tradition–women as nuns and teachers, Eucharistic ministers, able to come to the altar to pray, but not to preach. Father Baxter, associate pastor, who has been here fifteen years, at least accepted the trend in female altar servers, although they rarely served at his masses.

It fell to me to try and bring the parish, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the twenty-first century. It was usually at my masses that at least one of the altar servers was female. I spoke openly and often about the modern trends changing the role of women in the Church. I was forever comparing the Roman Catholic religion to the other, more tolerant sects in my Sunday homilies, only to have disagreeing letters sent to Father Petrocelli, who would then call me into his office and lecture me, complete with waving gestures and disapproving looks. My latest faux pas was discussing the discovery of the ancient papyrus of Mary Magdalene’s gospel. That did not go over too well, so this afternoon I was summoned to Father Pete’s office. I had both pastors admonishing me, like a team, this time suggesting I take a retreat. I dissuaded them from that idea and was coming out of Father Pete’s office, adjusting my eyeglasses, when I saw her.

“Excuse me Father, I know I don't have an appointment and I'm sure you must be terribly busy, but I really need to talk to you.” A whisper of a Spanish accent in the few words spoken.

At first, I thought she was one of the children in my class, she was so tiny in stature. On closer inspection, though, I could see the youthful maturity in her face. She was holding a cloth handkerchief, something I hadn't seen in years. Everyone these days carried tissues, and I was amazed to see a young woman with an embroidered hanky. Hiding my surprise (and my consternation–I desperately wanted a cigarette even though I had given them up five years ago), I put on my “cleric look.” You know that look: it says you can trust me with your secrets. From your mouth to God's ears. It is not a feigned look or something I cultivated, it's just that I needed to change from chastised younger priest to God’s trusted servant.

“Certainly, please come into my office and I’ll give you as much time as you need.” I turned, walked across the room, and opened a large brown door with a nameplate on it that read “Father Jason Logan.” “Please, sit,” I said and pointed to a comfortable leather chair across from my mahogany desk. She walked the short distance to the chair, sat down and it immediately engulfed her small frame. Her short, close-cropped hair reminded me of the portraits of Joan of Arc I had seen in Paris during my student days. Her skin was the color of caramel, and her large dark eyes held a look of sadness. The unshed tears were waiting to fall from them at any minute. Instead of sitting behind my desk and having it act as a barrier, I took the seat next to her, turning it so we could converse face to face. She brought the handkerchief to her face, gently dabbing at her skin. I noticed the yellow daffodils surrounding the initials “DNF.”

"Are you alright? Do you want something, a glass of water perhaps?" I asked her.

"No thank you, Father".

I saw her take a deep breath, as if to compose her thoughts. The look of vulnerability suddenly disappeared as if a curtain was drawn across her face and, in its place, sat a calm, collected person. That breath seemed to give her courage. I leaned forward, silently giving her room to speak safely in this space.

"My name’s Felicia, Felicia Guzman. I've been in the neighborhood for a while now. I heard your sermon, the one about the papyrus and I think you would be the one to understand and help me."

I almost wanted to close my eyes and simply listen to the woman's voice. She had such a lilting cadence to her speech, though the words were brusque and business-like. The musical tone of her voice was mesmerizing.