5. Matteo
FIVE
MATTEO
I swallow nervously, hands sweating as I look out at the congregation.
Mass is going great. I know all the prayers and all the Words like the back of my hand, but now it’s time for the homily, and I can’t stop from shaking. It was the same when I gave my first service, unsure and so green, and I haven’t been this rattled in ten years.
The readings were simple enough. The prayers came easily. The homily—where I have to try and make true connections—is always the hard part.
I clear my throat. I look to the left at the ambo where I’m supposed to be. The podium-like structure is lifted on a platform, equipped with a microphone so everyone can hear me. There’s something about that I don’t like. It feels so disconnected, like I’m up on some untouchable pedestal. I know in a church this big, it might be easier for everyone to see me, but if I want to be a part of this small community, I can’t be literally looking down at them.
Instead of going to the ambo, I take a step off the altar. “Can everyone hear me?”
While there are only about two dozen people in front of me, there are also a few stragglers in the back. But everyone nods, all eyes on me.
I gulp. “As most of you may know by now, my name is Father Matteo, and I’m your new priest. Well, I figure Marcy may have spread the word by now and now it’s my time to spread the Word .”
Silence.
Okay, this might be a bit tougher than trying to keep the attention of a room full of children. I shut my eyes for a moment, the blood pounding in my ears, and let out a deep breath. I take comfort in where I’m at, in the house of God, and figure I should just do what I do best.
“Today, we heard about a passage of belief, but I wonder if we know what that truly means? Belief in God? Belief in His Grace?” I question, beginning to walk down from the altar, touching the pews as I engage with the parishioners I pass. “Does anyone know how to define belief?” While everyone else looks around at each other, Marcy’s hand is the first one that shoots up. “Yes, Marcy.”
“Having faith,” she says proudly.
I nod along but click my tongue. “Faith. That’s another big word we sometimes misuse. Who can tell me what it means?”
This time, instead of blank faces, a few hands rise. I pick a man a few pews back and walk toward him. “Yes, your name?”
“Don,” he says, giving me a warm friendly smile. “Faith is trusting something is true, even if you can’t see it with your own eyes.”
“Thank you, Don,” I tell him, reaching out to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you and well put. The key words here are ‘with your own eyes’. Sometimes we cling to the things we can see or touch and neglect that which is invisible to us. You may not be able to see or touch God, but you know He exists. The question to reflect on now is how do we overcome everything else to justify our decision to believe in God? But, in a more practical sense that applies to our daily life, how can we be certain of our decisions?”
I lead it this way for a reason. Some priests strictly go by the Gospel to fuel their homilies, but I don’t always agree with that. I want my parishioners to be able to apply the lessons from the church to their daily lives. If the goal is to be better and grow, why hit them with a bunch of hypotheticals?
Don raises his hand again, but I look to my left at a young woman in a pretty floral dress with long blonde hair and stunning green eyes. “Yes. Your name?”
“It’s Clara.” She reaches out so confidently and shakes my hand. “Is the answer you’re looking for belief?”
I, along with the rest of the congregation, chuckle. “I see you caught me. Yes, it is belief. The belief and confidence you’re on the right path in your life. The belief and confidence you’re doing the right things. The belief and confidence that every day will be better than the last.”
Clara nods, happy she got the answer right, and I’m about to ask my next question when something stops me in my tracks. The man next to her catches my attention because his lightly freckled face just looks so… sad. He’s staring at me with raised brows, almost as if shocked by my words, and there’s something swimming in his clear blue eyes. I’m captivated for a moment, caught off guard by the sheer desperation in them, and I see a flicker of familiarity. There’s a brief sense of bonding, a tether connecting us, but I can’t put my finger on why.
I sink into that feeling. An unknown part of me reaches out to grasp it, but when I realize I’ve been staring far too long, I clear my throat and turn toward the rest of the congregation. “I think my point is clear. In our day-to-day lives, let’s move forward with belief and faith. Let’s move forward with the knowledge we know the right thing to do, even if it’s tough, and even if we can’t conceive of it outside of our imaginations. I’m humbled to be your servant, here for anything you need, and ready to assuage your doubts.”
I don’t expect the round of applause that follows my sentence and my cheeks flush with something akin to embarrassment, but I won’t lie and say I’m not flattered. I return to the altar and the rest of the Mass progresses as usual. I feel more confident now, less nervous, and more optimistic about Saint Lucy’s.
The service ends and now comes my favorite part. I wait outside the church doors alongside a spread of donuts and coffee I asked Marcy to pick up, ready to talk one-on-one with my flock. They start to filter out and I try to catch everyone as they do. I speak with Don and his wife Sydney, a lovely couple that invite me over for brunch next Saturday, an offer I happily accept. Marcy introduces me to Earl, the man who runs the General Store, and he tells me I’ll get half-off on meat if I open confession up to Tuesdays.
“Father,” Clara greets, walking out and reaching for my hand. “That was such a wonderful service.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, squeezing her dainty hand. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
“Those are my parents.” She points over to an older couple chatting with Marcy by the sidewalk. “They wanted to come and introduce themselves, but I managed to save you. We’d be here for hours, but they’re going to extend an invite for you to join us for dinner one night.”
“I’d be happy to accept,” I say genuinely.
“I’d love for you to meet my husband.” She turns around and waves someone over. “Theo, come say hello to Father Matteo.”
My words get caught in my throat when the man with the freckles from earlier approaches us. He has his hands shoved in his pockets, an almost reluctance in his stride, and he runs a hand through his dark auburn hair when he reaches us. “Father.”
“Nice to meet you, Theo.” I reach my hand out and my breath hitches when his skin meets mine. Once again, a kind of magnetism connects us. His eyes widen as if he feels it too, something passing between the two of us, an understanding we share about something I still can’t place. I clear my throat when I pull my hand away, clasping it in front of me. “Did you enjoy the service?”
“Yes,” he mumbles, eyes still holding mine. “Your homily was…”
“So true,” Clara finishes happily for him when he can’t find the words. “Father Paul was great, but he never came out in the pews like that. I felt like I was talking to a friend rather than a priest.”
“I’m here to be both.” I see a crowd forming by the door and tip my head at the two in front of me. “I hope you enjoyed it enough to come back next Sunday.”
“Absolutely,” Theo says quickly, flushing with a weak smile. “For sure.”
There’s something so sincere about him. His twitching fingers, his nervous grin, the way he teeters on his heels like he’s unsure of his presence. It’s… intriguing might not be the best word, but it’s charming, nonetheless.
“I think my parents are calling us over,” Clara says, locking her arm around Theo’s. “Thank you again, Father.”
“Anytime. I’m here for whatever you need,” I say but for some reason, I look at Theo when I say it. His eyes widen yet again before they cast down, shuffling next to his wife as they rejoin her parents.
Theo doesn’t entirely leave my mind as I speak to the rest of the congregation. There’s just something about him that calls me to help him. That sadness, the timidness, the lingering pain in his eyes spoke to me. It reminds me so much of the pain I used to carry—still do some days—and I can’t shake it out of my head.
“Looks like you were a hit,” Marcy tells me a bit later once everyone is enjoying coffee and donuts. “Hopefully that means they’ll join us when we drive down to the city this week.”
I raise my brows. “We’re driving down to the city?”
“You scheduled us to volunteer at a soup kitchen in Cheyenne.” She pats my shoulder with a knowing smile. “Remember, I handle these things for you. All you have to do is show up.”
My appreciation for Marcy grows. Helping those in need is something my soul yearns for. I bring her into a side hug. “You really are the best.”
She blushes as she bats my arm away. “Smooth talker. We’ll let the people hang out for a little while longer before shooin’ them home.”
I nod my agreement as she goes back into the crowd, socializing like one should with people they’ve known all their life. I’m just about to join her when a flash catches the corner of my eye. I look behind me at the donuts and see a small hand reach out from under the table, fumbling to snag one. I chuckle to myself, heading over, and bending down so I can lift the tablecloth.
I’m greeted by a pair of startled green eyes, which belong to a small boy, maybe six, trying to sneak a treat from the table. That’s the first thing I notice, and my gut clenches when I take in the rest of him. He’s in tattered clothes, slightly dirty, and genuinely afraid of my reaction to catching him.
“Hey,” I start carefully, grabbing a donut and handing it to him. “You don’t have to hide. You can?—”
He snatches the donut and runs away before I can say anything else, and I’m left wondering about what just happened. I stand up quickly, looking to see where he went, but he’s disappeared around the corner. I go to follow, my gut telling me I need to, but I’m pulled away before I can do anything.
More mingling. More meetings. More invitations.
After a little while, it becomes too much, and I excuse myself. I head straight to the rectory, disrobing and changing into some sweats. Not knowing what to do, I wander around the church. At camp, I would normally just sit in my room and read, but I’m feeling a bit restless. Remembering Noah liked to tease me about not having any hobbies, I realize he’s right, but I’ve never given it much thought.
So, I end up in front of the altar, behind a pew, on my knees, doing what I do best.
I think about the people of Smallville and the weight their acceptance has put on my shoulders. I think of Theo and his silent and unwilling call for help. I think of the boy.
I think and I pray.