I was supposed to be a shepherd of the flock, not the wolf. Not the wolf who had woken up this morning grinding his hips into the mattress because he’d had a very intense dream with Poppy and her carnal sins in a starring role. Guilt wormed through me at the memory. I’m going to hell, I thought. There’s no way I’m not going to hell.

Worry is a sin, even I know that, yet I am more than just a lily of the field. I’m a lily that’s been plucked from the ground and laid at your feet. When it comes to you, I’m rootless and helpless and at your mercy for sunshine and water. And I’m not even supposed to be yours. How can I not worry?

The Church said everything about her and me was wrong. It was lust and fornication. It was lying. It was betrayal. But the Church also talked about the kind of love that transcended any and all boundaries, and the Bible was filled with stories of people who carried out God’s will and had very human desires. I mean, what even was sin? Who was being hurt by Poppy and me loving each other? It’s a matter of trust, I reminded myself. Because while I wrestled with the epistemological nature of sin like the trained theologian I was, I was also a shepherd and shepherds had to be practical. The issue was that I had come here to build up trust in the church, to undo another man’s wrongs. And no matter how consensual and otherwise unremarkable my relationship was with Poppy, it would still ruin that. My work, my goals, my memorial to Lizzy’s death.

"... I like the rituals themselves too... I like the incense and the wine and the chants. It feels ancient and holy. And there’s something about the rituals that brings me back to God every time, no matter how foul my mood is, no matter how badly I’ve sinned. Once I start, it all sort of fades away, like it’s not important. Which it isn’t. Because while Catholicism can be macabre, it’s also a religion of joy and connection, of remembering that sorrow and sin can’t hold on to us any longer.”