PASTORAL INTERN

I didn't know much about Catholics,
what they felt, believed, and so on.
So when, on a visit to the hospital,
the woman in the other bed called
me "Father," I was stunned.
But I'm not . . . I stammered. She waved
her hand. I know, she said, but I need
to talk. She did. Told me about her
family. Told me more about her cancer
than I cared to know. Told me when
she'd made her last confession.
Told me she prayed her son would
be a priest, but he'd become
a cop instead. Her eyes brimmed.
And when the pain gets so bad,
she said and paused, and
I think I cannot bear it,
I remember Christ and his suffering
on the cross and that he bore
it all for me. For me.
She closed her eyes and wept.
I reached to touch her hand,
the one that wasn't tube-attached.
She smiled and nodded.
I left the room and wondered
what it meant to be a priest.