Catholic Anonymous

This is the second chapter in a series. You can read the first chapter here.

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Five Years Later

The side chapel was dim, its candles glittering low. God sat waiting in the pew, elbows on his knees, looking for all the world like an old man resting after a long walk.

The door creaked. David slipped in, hair disheveled, clutching a stack of books and a notebook. He gave God a brief smile before sliding into the pew two seats away.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Working on a talk for Friday. Time got away from me.”

He stacked the books neatly on the floor, closed his eyes, breathed in deep, then crossed himself.

“Our Father, who art in heaven—”

“David.”

“Hallowed be thy name, thy—”

“David. Please. Can we just talk?”

David opened his eyes, blinking. “Oh… yes, of course.”

God shifted, as if the words he wanted uncomfortably rested on his shoulders.

David recognized that posture. It usually meant correction was coming. He braced himself, soldiering up inside.

But this time God looked tired. His face was lined, his voice low. Less like a general, more like a sparring partner who had gone one round too many.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“You know what I mean.”

David tilted his head, feigning confusion.

“Why the talk this Friday?”

“I have the youth group,” David said quickly. “I’m speaking on the Prodigal Son.”

“That’s what you’re doing. I’m asking why.”

David sat back, folding his arms. “Because it’s good. Don’t you want me telling people about you?”

God’s brow furrowed. “Of course. But there are many ways to do that. Why this way?”

David hesitated.

The truth was, he loved it. The way the kids leaned forward when he told a story. The laughter when he slipped in a joke. The nods from parents afterward, especially from Beth, who always stayed late to fold chairs. She had a way of saying, “You’re so funny!” or “I never thought of that passage that way.” Her laugh stuck in his ears longer than he wanted to admit.

“I’m good at it,” David said at last. “Shouldn’t a man use his gifts?”

God regarded him carefully, then said slowly, “Yes. A man should use the gifts he’s given.”

David straightened, reassured, and closed his eyes to return to his prayer.

“David,” God interrupted again, softer now. “How are you and Hannah?”

David’s eyes flicked open. He chose his words with care. “We’re… managing.”

“Managing?”

He exhaled. “She has her ups and downs. Some mornings she’s singing to the baby, filling the house with life. And the next day she won’t get out of bed. The dishes pile up. Abigail’s left crying in her bed. I come home to silence, or tears. I… I don’t know which version of her I’ll walk into.”

God waited.

“I’ve tried to help,” David continued, almost pleading. “I wake up to feed Abigail at night. I change diapers. I clean. And still, in the morning, she looks at me like I’ve failed her. Nothing I do makes it better.” His hands tightened into fists. “So I come here. I give talks. I do something I know I can do right.”

“So you run away.”

David flinched. His body jerked as if to stand, but he forced himself down. His voice rose. “I haven’t left her. I’m not unfaithful.”

“Not in body,” God said quietly. “But what about in spirit? What is this youth group, if not your hiding place? And Beth—”

“Don’t,” David snapped. His voice cracked louder than he intended, drawing a glance from a man praying in the back row. He lowered it, ashamed. “You don’t need to bring her into this.”

“I do. I see the way you look at her. I see the way you forget yourself, the way you enjoy being near someone who laughs easily.”

David stared down at his hands. “She’s happy,” he whispered. “I don’t want an affair. I just… wish I could be close to a woman who was happy.”

God leaned toward him, His voice low, gentle. “I know it’s heavy. But every marriage carries its cross. This is yours. Stay with her in this, David. Don’t run. What you bear now can shape you—both of you—into something stronger. It will be for your good, and hers, especially in the next life.”

David wanted to believe. But one phrase echoed louder than the rest: in the next life.

He pictured years rolling on—Hannah sometimes better, sometimes slipping into a pit he couldn’t climb down into. Him carrying the weight of the house, the baby, her silences, her tears. No relief. No laughter. Not in this life.

His chest hardened.

Without another word, he pulled his rosary from his pocket. The beads clicked like stones against each other as he began. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

“David.”

“Hallowed be thy name…”

“David, please.”

The voice grew quieter with each repetition.

“David…”

But the beads rattled louder in his ears, the prayers spilling out faster, drowning everything else.

Finally, silence.

God sat back in the pew, watching him, eyes full of sorrow. Then His form thinned, like mist fading from morning air, until David was alone.

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You should know I wrote this with the help of ChatGPT. I explain how I use and don’t use it here.

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