I can't work on it presently, since my laptop is fucked up, but I found what I had so far. I shall put it here. It's not complete, but it's decently long for a journal entry.

“Almighty God, who by our baptism into the death and resurrection of thy Son Jesus Christ dost turn us from the old life of sin: Grant that we, being reborn to new life in him, may live in righteousness and holiness all our days; through the same thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.”

Water dripped slowly down the side of the metal cup in the hands of Father Michael Riordan. A baby, a young girl, squirmed in the arms of her parents, her head held gently over a basin. Her baptismal dress was a bright write and slightly wrinkled. She was a fidgety one. A small crowd gathered around the baby and holy man, full of close family and friends, godparents, and distant relatives. Father Riordan had always enjoyed how rituals brought people closer together. Despite their opinions, their humanity, they found peace in the Lord. He took a brief moment to cast his glance across the faces of the people. They didn’t notice. They were focused on the little girl, Rachel Weylan, only a few weeks old, and already showing signs of her father’s smile. All of their troubles, the tribulations of their daily lives, had gone away. And all it took was the sight of a baby girl held above a basin, and the belief that what was about to be done would be worth it in the end. Water poured forth from the cup onto Rachel’s head. The infant frowned in response.

“Rachel Elizabeth Weylan, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go forth, and bring with you the light of the Lord, our God.”

There was light applause, and as usual the edges of Father Riordan’s emerald eyes crinkled in a humble smile. His hands folded in front of him, resting against the white alb he had draped over his usual cassock. He was a young priest of 29 who, due to the persistent illness of his congregation’s true priest, often led services and ceremonies. Gray hadn’t yet begun to creep into his auburn hair. His hands were soft, his voice quiet enough to be drowned out from time to time by the loud, echoing flights of the birds that had taken up residence in the steeple. Matthewl Weylan, the baby’s father, had already gone back into the throngs of his family. His cousins patted his shoulder, his sister smiling. Rachel’s mother, Sharon, remained at the basin, holding the baby girl in her arms. Rachel had wrapped her fingers tightly around a button on her mother’s blouse, intrigued by the way the sunlight from the stained glass windows bounced off it. Sharon gazed down at her child, brimming with a mother’s love. She looked up and fixed her eyes on Father Riordan. There was, for a moment, a sadness, a guilt within them.

She came to confession a week before the birth of her child. She was crying then. Father Riordan had exited the bathroom to find her standing at the entrance. Tears lined her cheeks, her eyes were puffy, and the car keys she held in her slender hand were shaking, sending a jingle throughout the silent church. Sharon’s belly bulged beneath her shirt, little Rachel within. She leaned against a pillar for support, the waning rays of dusk falling just above her head. Father Riordan nearly tripped over his own cassock to get to her.

“Mrs. Weylan, wha-“

She began to sob, lightly, quietly. “Do you think God will forgive me?”

She slid gently to the ground and Father Riodan knelt beside her. Mrs. Weylan was a deeply religious woman. Whatever it was she had done, she must have felt it was grievous.

“Come with me, please.”

He extended his hand and helped her to her feet. Michael led her to the nearest seat and knelt in front of her. She wouldn’t release his hand, gripping it tightly and kneading it. Sarah tried to form words, but sobs would interrupt her speech. Father Riordan understood. He locked eyes with her, trying to make his appear as kind and soft as possible.

“Sarah, we’re alone here. By God’s will, I can’t speak a word of what goes on here to anyone else. It’s alright, Sarah, it’s alright. What is it?”

And so she told him. She told Michael everything. She talked to him about Matthew, Rachel, her business trip nine months earlier, and the man she had met there. His name was Nick and he was young, charming. He had a smile, so bright and so cheerful, and Matthew had been so withdrawn. He was like a younger version of her husband, full of life and hope and still bearing the dreams that youth allowed him to have. She told the priest about the candles and the flowers, the childish things she loved so much. Sarah talked about the bed and her age-tarnished wedding ring. She told Michael which she had chosen that night.

Father Riordan consoled her. He helped her to come to terms with what she had done and what she had failed to do. Yet he could do nothing further. He offered her prayers to recite, steps to take, yet that was where his influence ended. Sarah had hugged him that night, after her crying had ended. It was a strange embrace, considering Michael had understandable fallen out of the habit. She stayed in the church a while longer, staring into space as Father Riordan went about his usual chores. He had gone into a room behind the altar for a moment and when he emerged, she was gone, the one of the church doors ajar. That was where Father Riordan’s memory of her visit ended.

When Father Riordan caught her gaze at the baptism, he understood. Without words, only a nod of the head, he assured her that the secret was still their own. What he couldn’t tell her, however, was just how many secrets he held. Michael’s gaze swept over the baptism crowd, recognizing faces and the stories that hid behind them. Adultery, gambling, drug use, assault, and all manner of sin. He held a great many more secrets locked away, confessions by other members of the congregation. Father Riordan was not a “fire and brimstone” type. He was a forgiving man with an open heart, but the care in his soul had become burdened by the trespasses of others. The people themselves had done nothing to him. In truth, his real problem stemmed from his inability to do anything about their troubles. Michael was bound by rules and laws by a power far greater than he, and it was due to these mandates that he could only console, advise, and hold secrets. Lately, he had begun to face doubts.

What good was it to just advise? His influence ended there, and so he was powerless to stop his confessors from committing those sins again. Had Sarah stayed truthful to her husband after her confession? Maybe, but the look in her eyes filled Michael with guilt. Had any of those who came to him held true to virtue? Something within Father Riordan kept him from believing it to be true. When he was young, he had admired priests for their faith, for their devotion to a cause they would never fully understand. That was why he became a priest, to gain that faith for himself, and to help others in their path towards God. This doubt, this pessimism, did it mean he had failed?

As the crowd made their way out of the church, back to their cars and to their lives, Father Riordan assured himself that this was merely a phase. Every man of the cloth must have felt this way once, had some tussle with faith. He closed the doors to his church, leaving them unlocked as usual. In the back rooms of the church, Michael took off his alb, placing it gently on a hanger. He wore his traditional black cassock. Clerical suits felt too casual for him. Cassocks had an air of history to them, and helped to remind him of his own status. The altar servers hadn’t come in today, and he had led the congregation without them. He remembered the line for the reception of the Eucharist being long for a Tuesday Mass. He recalled musing about it as he distributed the body of Christ. All of these people, lined up in a row, waiting and shuffling forward to him for their salvation. He held the key.

Mr. Diaz reached the front of the line, the quick glance he had shot the Father. Mr. Diaz’s son was gay. He had confessed to the Father a few days prior his confusion, his fear, his anger. He was afraid that his daughter might turn out the same, and that he had stopped speaking to his son, stopped loving him and feared that God had done the same. He needed to be reassured that God never stopped loving anyone, and nor should he. There was Ms. Dobson, still mourning her fiance’s death, and how she couldn’t understand why God would do that to her. She felt nothing in this place of God. Michael could see it in her eyes. She was going through the motions, hoping that a God she hardly believed in would save her. Mrs. Greene was been in the line, the stench of alcohol still on her breath. Hank Wheeler was there, with the 18-year old mother of his child. The congregation members believed her to be his niece, their child to be his grandson. Father Riordan expected to say Frank Gibson come before him. He then remembered why Frank wouldn’t show. Dead people don’t attend Mass. His platoon had gone into Iraq and in the course of duty, Frank had come upon a mother and her child. The mother jumped in fright. Frank reacted too quickly and with a pistol, claimed their lives. That same pistol would later take his. Michael had buried him three weeks earlier.

And yet, the living ones still showed up, still stood in the light that came through the saints in the windows, and received their blessings. They sang the hymns, recited the prayers, and ate of the body of Christ. Michael would have loved to believe that their piety extended beyond the church walls, but he couldn’t accept that. He wondered if they knew that faith took more than an hour a week and a hurried recitation of bad deeds through a mesh screen. He was curious if they knew that looking for forgiveness “just in case” wasn’t the way it should be done. But he would smile and nod and assure himself that these people were here for God, not for themselves. Yes, they were here for God. They would sit there, in their heartache and pain, misery and hate, look towards Him and ask for absolution. Hope. Michael hopes they were fortunate enough to find it.

‘Mass has ended. Go in peace.”

The final “Amen” was uttered in unison, and Father Riordan and his altar servers proceeded out of the church to the recessional hymn. Some of the parishioners joined in the hymn. Most stared forward or cast furtive glances at Michael as he passed. Amy Rhodes, internet prostitute. Richard Hughes, embezzler. What did it mean, that he saw sins instead of people? George White, adulterer. Cheryl Freeman, adulteress. Connection? Possibly. Most of them came to confession regularly, ready to purge themselves of sins they’d tried to exterminate many times before. They knelt before the image of Jesus and recited their prayers that hardly made it beyond their own lips. They would breathe, deeply and slowly, and stand up. Then, feeling refreshed, they would go towards the rest of their lives. He had seen in countless times, and all too frequently heard the same voices recite the same transgressions. They didn’t seem to try and truly better themselves? Why should he help them on their circular path of self-improvement?

Father Riordan waited outside for his congregation. He always bade them farewell at the end of Mass. It was a more personable thing to do. When the parishioners made it out of the church, there was conversation and chatter, from talk of the previous night’s meal to parties and get-togethers for the coming week. Father Riordan tried his best to remind himself that these people were here for absolution, but he remembered their sins with every step they took. These people weren’t here for salvation. They were here for a weekly dose of a holy anesthetic to numb their self-inflicted wounds.

“Father?”

A feminine voice brought Michael out of his thoughts. It belonged to Amelia Langston, a woman in her mid-thirties, single mother of one. She was dressed in her Sunday best, a blue blouse and black pants, a silver cross hung around her neck on a thin chain. She wore her brown hair short, just below her chin.

"Mrs. Langston, how are you? Where's Amy?"

"Oh, she's at home. Chicken pox."

"Oh."

"She's thirteen and she's just getting them. Can you believe it? Itchy all over."

"Give her my best?"

"I will. Father, there's something I wanted to ask you."

"What is it?"

Mrs. Langston looked around at the congregation. Most had gone home, but some of the older members remained, chatting idly with one another. She leaned in closer towards Michael, speaking in a lower voice.

"Can I talk to you inside?"

"Uh, sure, sure."

Michael led her into the church. He excused himself for a moment, to remove the liturgical vestments. When he rejoined Amelia, he was donned in his usual cassock, much more comfortable. The church was brightly light, the sun streaming down through Jesus' glass halo in a window far above the altar. A man was praying near a set of tithing candles, though he seemed to hardly be paying attention to the rest of the world. Mrs. Langston waited patiently near a statue of Joseph, slight slouch to her frame. She was toying with her necklace, absentmindedly running her fingers along it. At the sight of Michael she straightened her posture and brought her hands down in front of her.

"Welcome back."

Michael smiled, chuckling lightly.

"Good to be back. Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

The two of them began a slow walk around the rows of wooden benches. Every now and then, Michael would stop to straighten out a stack of Bibles, or pick up a stray missalette.

"Well, Father. I have a question."

"Alright."

"As you know, since the bast-...oh, sorry Father."

"It's okay."

"Since Peter and I split, it's just been Amy and I in the house."

"You're doing fine, financially?"

"Oh yeah, he still sends the checks." She laughed slightly.

"Good, good."

"But it's just been Amy and I in the house and, well..."

"Well?"

"I met someone. His name is Greg and he's such a nice person. He's sweet, and charming, and handsome and we've been seeing each other for a year and a half now-"

"Congratulations! I didn't know."

"We've been trying to keep it secret, for Amy's sake. We don't want her to be made fun of for having a dating mom."

"Understandable."

"Father, Greg and I have decided that it's time to move on."

Michael was confused. He stopped his walk for a moment, perplexed.

"I thought you said he was sweet and charming?"

Amelia smiled. "No, Father, what I mean is..."

She withdrew her left hand from her pocket, looked at it for a moment, then showed it to Father Riordan. On her ring finger was a golden band, a small yet bright diamon in its center.

"We're getting married."

Michael's face dropped. Mrs. Langston was a divorcee. He couldn't wed her.

"Amelia, I'm sorry, but I can't marry you and Greg in this church."

"I know, Father, I know. It's fine. We're having a civil ceremony. But I would like you to be there."

"Oh. Well, I'd be honored."

(All I have so far. THere's more to this scene.)