[DISCLAIMER AND SUCH: This story depicts a sexual relationship between an ordained Episcopal priest and her parishioner. Both are of age, and nothing nonconsensual or even dubiously consensual takes place.
While the account of their relationship is not exactly fictional, certain names and details have been changed to protect all involved.
The author of this story does not condone sexual relationships between clergy and parishioners, as such conduct is in violation of Title IV of the Canons of the Church, blah blah blah... so don't boink your parishioners, mmmkay?]
+++++
"Morning, Mother Leah," my favorite acolyte said cheerfully as I entered the vesting-room. Typical Julie—I had just arrived at the church, and she was already vested and ready.
Juliette Monroe is a sophomore in college, probably about twenty years old, and has attended St. Mary's since she moved to the Baltimore area for college.
Julie was already a devout Episcopalian when she joined us, and immediately began seizing every possible opportunity to serve. She quickly integrated herself into the life of the parish by her genuine desire to help in any way she could find. Michael—the rector—and I often joke that we will have to commission a small army of people to replace her when she graduates and (presumably) moves somewhere else.
I arrived at St. Mary's about six months before Julie did, having accepted a call to be their assistant rector. I liked her as soon as I met her. I think most everyone does.
She's quiet, but her presence fills up a room, and she is a joy to be around. Seeing her smile and hearing her laugh make even the worst days feel a little more bearable, and she never has an unkind word to say about anyone.
Above all else, her immense reverence and love for the liturgy, and for the God she serves, calls us all—clergy and laity alike—into a deeper sense of awe and wonder at God and all His works.
"Hi, Julie," I replied.
After some brief pleasantries, she excused herself and slipped into the hospitality room to snag me a cup of coffee. Three creams, two sugars, just the way I take it.
"Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite?" I teased, taking the Styrofoam cup from her and proceeding to guzzle its contents rather ungracefully. "Praise be to God," I said, and she chuckled.
The coffee was lukewarm in temperature and weakly brewed—an occupational hazard with church coffee—but it was certainly better than nothing.
"Would you go into the sanctuary and light the altar candles, please, Julie?"
"Yes, Mother Leah," she said, bowing her head respectfully to me before grabbing the long brass taper and scurrying off to the sacristy to look for a lighter.
As the coffee made its way to my brain, it occurred to me that today was the third Sunday of Easter—still part of the Easter season. I called after her, "You need to light the Paschal candle, too, please!"
"I know. Thank you."
Of course you do.
When she returned, having lit all the candles, and bearing a second cup of coffee for me, she straightened out my stole and clipped on my lavalier mic before helping me get my chasuble on.
"You look really beautiful," she said when I was fully vested, which made me blush and look away. She reached out to touch my arm, her delicate hand resting on the lacy sleeve of my alb. "I mean it. You do."
It's hard for me—especially since my thirty-two-year marriage ended in divorce, which happened a year before I began serving at St. Mary's—to see my body as anything other than a vessel or a container for the rest of me. I've gained a lot of weight since my marriage started to fall apart, and rarely wear makeup beyond a bit of concealer and some chapstick.
I don't feel connected to my body. It's just the shell where I live. I used to get manicures and expensive haircuts and put a lot of thought into what I wore, but that just isn't me anymore. I'm not repulsed by my body, necessarily; I'm just incredibly apathetic about it.
I look quite unmistakably German—very fine blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and fair skin. Not to mention, I have a rather prominent nose, about which I'm somewhat self-conscious. There's not much else remarkable about me.
Julie, on the other hand, is drop-dead gorgeous. She's about my height—around 5'8"—and very slim, maybe 130 pounds soaking wet. She has deep caramel skin, curly mocha-brown hair, and very large hazel eyes laced with flecks of amber. She is so beautiful that it's almost jarring.
"Thank you," I muttered clumsily. "Are you... are you ready to go?" She nodded, excited at the prospect of beginning worship. She grabbed the processional cross and we made our way into the narthex, getting ready to process into the church.
Two services later, we were once again in the vesting room. Father Michael, who had joined us for the second service, and six other acolytes—all high school or younger—were milling about, hanging up vestments and chatting about their plans for the rest of the day.
Julie supervised the younger acolytes, making sure they hung their albs up properly and didn't leave their cinctures dangling down to the floor.
"Bye, Father Michael. Bye, Mother Leah." The young acolytes left one by one.
Father Michael had to be on his way too; he had five children under the age of twelve, and a wife who would be rather unhappy with him if he didn't hurry home.
That left only Julie and me.
"Did you lose power after the storm last night?" I asked, trying to make conversation. "Apparently half the city did."
"No," she said. "I don't technically live in the city proper. It was storming pretty badly where I live, but I don't think anyone lost power. Not that I know of, at least. What about you?"
Oh, that's right. You live in Towson. Duh.
"Yeah. A huge tree fell on my street, right on the power line. As far as I know, the power at my house is still out. I'm still a little irked that I couldn't take a shower this morning."
"Oh," she said. "That's no good. No power means no air conditioning. Well, come eat lunch at my apartment, then."
"Hmm?"
"Yeah! I'll cook for you, and you can hang out for a bit. You can take a shower, too, if you want."
"That sounds really nice, actually," I said. "Thank you. Where are you parked?"
Now, of course, it did flash through my mind for a moment that it probably wasn't the most appropriate thing on earth for a priest to be in a parishioner's apartment alone. But it seemed harmless enough.
What I didn't know is that this would become a ritual—our Sunday afternoon lunches at her apartment would become a weekly thing. It wasn't something we advertised, of course—it was sort of our little secret—but it's something I came to enjoy very much.
Once you get to know her, Julie is actually quite a bit more chatty than she appears at first glance. And quite the conversationalist, too. Witty, articulate, well-spoken, and thoughtful. I was more and more impressed with her as weeks went on. It occurred to me that we'd had very few real one-on-one conversations—mostly just passing chatter as we were vesting together, or group conversations at the college students' group I led. I was enjoying talking with her. It was incredibly natural.
It took me a little longer to get used to her cat, Gremlin—he was one of those weird hairless ones that remind you of a walking nutsack with ears—but Julie was crazy about him, and, in time, I resigned myself to seeing Grem as being sort of cute... in his own bizarre, vaguely scrotal way.
Julie was a Southern girl at heart, and loved her breakfast food. She would make eggs, grits, sausage, pancakes...the whole nine yards. And, of course, every college girl's favorite brunch drink: mimosas. I wasn't sure whether she was old enough to drink—I was pretty sure she wasn't—but I didn't ask too many questions. And the pancakes were always from scratch, not from a box. I had never met anyone with a greater appreciation for pancakes than Julie.
"Julie, dear," I ribbed her one week, "I have a feeling that if Mrs. Butterworth were a man, you'd marry her."
She shot me a mischievous look. "Actually, being a man would be a deal breaker."
Oh.
Oh
. "Wait—you're... wait, no, that's none of my business. I'm so sorry. I'm going to shut up now."
"No, it's okay," she said with a chuckle. "And yes, I'm gay."
The Episcopal Church doesn't condemn gay people at all—in fact, openly partnered and married gay and lesbian people can become priests and even bishops—and I personally don't have a problem with it, either. I just didn't happen to know that about Julie.
I admired the casual confidence with which she said it. For the latter half of my marriage, and ever since it ended, I had harbored suspicions that I might be attracted partly—or perhaps even exclusively—to women.
This was a large part of why Charlie and I had gotten divorced. I had always told people that it was because we had fallen out of love with one another, but in my heart, I wondered whether I had ever been in love with him, or whether I was even capable of it. I loved Charlie—don't get me wrong; he was a wonderful husband, an amazing friend, and the best dad my daughters could have ever asked for—and although I had never strayed, I don't know that my heart was ever his. I think he knew that. I had never had the courage to speak the words aloud—to him, or even to myself—but I think he knew. Still, my secret was something I kept hidden as deep inside as I could bury it.
"Thank you for trusting me enough to share that," I said in my best priest voice.
She shrugged. "It's no big deal."
Our conversation turned to other things—her studies, anecdotes from my own college and seminary days, and everything else under the sun.
We somehow ended up talking about the subject of first kisses. Mine was with the only other guy I ever dated before Charlie—the guy who had introduced us, actually—whose name was Bill. Bill and I were about nineteen and in college, and he kissed me behind the bleachers during the homecoming game. Both Julie and I giggled about how ridiculously dorky that was.
The first time I kissed Charlie was even more ridiculous—it happened while we were drunk and sitting in the bed of his truck at a tailgate party. Yes,
in the actual flatbed
of a Chevrolet pickup truck. (Classy, right?)
