10-23-2015, 11:11 AM
I am relatively certain that I can, at this point, navigate Arturo Merino Benítez International Airport in my sleep. It is my preferred method of entry into Santiago. Direct. Familiar. And yet, when my plane touches down after an overnight flight it does so in Alejandro Velasco Astete International Airport. Which is not near Santiago and not even in Chile, but rather is positioned at the heart of Cusco, Peru.
We will never have anything more.
It is an airport that is, refreshingly, named for a pilot rather than a politician. This I discovered while enjoying my fourth cup of coffee with Illari. Who was a lovely companion for the duration of my flight. Upon landing in Cusco, I took her up on her very gracious offer to drive me to my hotel. There may have been some champagne.
When I confessed my sins not long after in Santiago, I did not count Illari among them. We all have our own intimate understandings of sin. Our own intimate understandings of grace.
I am not, in many ways, particularly good at being Catholic. But then, strictly speaking, I am not Catholic at all. I have a Catholic priest. And some understanding of God and Angels and Divinity that transcends the boundaries of what most of the people whose piety and obedience binds them more closely to tradition experience.
I have seen the Words that are the foundation of Creation. I can weigh these Words against the less resonant words of men. Against the ways that history and necessity and translation warp the fabric of something sacred and transcendent. For most of us, the living Words of Creation are beyond comprehension.
I am asleep in a confession booth when Ramon comes down from his apartment above the church. I am not sure how long he waits for me to wake, but I can make out the vibrant splashes of color of sunbeams fallen through stained glass instead of darkness.
"You might have come upstairs," Ramon says softly. And I know that I could have come upstairs and picked his locks and fallen into his arms. It would hardly have been the first time. And it would, in some ways, have been more comfortable than a confession booth. And in others....
I may weigh against the Words of Creation the words of men, but vows taken before God are vows taken before God. The things that we surrender and the things that we sacrifice should, in some senses not be easy. We should, sometimes, feel the weight of those things. Such is the nature of sacrifice.
But we must not feel that weight in every moment. Seconds washed in love and joy and longing for a life we cannot have. I cannot help but be aware that one of the few people who makes me forget how heavy duty is is most washed with the weight of lives unlived in my company. It's why I left Santiago. It's why I cannot stay away.
I don't confess that either. Not to Ramon.
But he knows. There are so many things we do not speak of to each other. But we know.
I wonder, sometimes, if I am on the list of things that he confesses about.
I don't ask him that. Instead, I rest my head lightly on the grate that separates us. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been..." Eight months. Lifetimes. "Far too long since my last confession."
And Ramon reaches up and sets one hand against the grate, the warmth of his skin radiating first between the metal and then through it. And it is Ramon. Ramon is not like me. Ramon gave up no part of himself to become a priest. No more than he will give up to become bishop or cardinal. Whether they make him a saint or make him a pope, he will still be Ramon.
Wherever he goes. Wherever I go. We will never have anything less than this.
We will never have anything more.