doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother

[[For stillasoldier and anyone else who feels like popping over to the Vatican for Santa Messa di Mezzanotte.]]

It had been many long months since Uriel even attempted to speak with his Father. Somewhere along the line he told himself he was too busy, had not accomplished enough, would not return empty handed. Spring, summer, autumn. They had all come and gone, and it was not until winter threatened to still his heart with its icy embrace that he realized he had nothing to show for the passage of time. His faith remained unsteady, the world had descended even further into chaos, and instead of redeeming Lucifer, they had nearly come to blows over the upcoming holy day. Over the celebration of His Son's birth. It was then he realized perhaps he had strayed too far, that he needed to actively pursue faith again instead of waiting for it to come to him. Where better to find faith than within the heart of His church, surrounded by His flock?

…†…

Rome is not as he expected it to be, not the place he recalled from his fractured memories. The city had always been crowded, even in medieval times, but the current crush of humanity catches him completely off guard. Crowds pack together in buildings and on sidewalks, businessmen and women rush home to their families, tourists meander blindly across streets, deaf to the shouts of the drivers who curse their passing. Even the buildings are crowded together, tiny shops under tiny apartments clustered next to hotels and churches, most of them covered in filth and graffiti. "In qualche modo l’umanità attende Dio, la sua vicinanza. Ma quando arriva il momento, non ha posto per Lui."¹ A few turn their heads at the Italian that passes so perfectly from the lips of a stranger, but most are content to ignore him and go about their way.

Frowning, he carefully sidesteps trash discarded on the sidewalk and attempts to orient himself with this new-old city. St. Peter's Basilica should be easy enough to find - exiled though he may be, he still senses the holiness of the place, the inherent power of the prayers and reverence offered up there - but he wants to explore while he can. It is not until shortly before midnight² that he makes his way to St. Peter's Square and the people thronging there. It would be easy enough to convince the crowds to part for him, to work his way inside the Basilica and see their celebrations firsthand, but he is content to stand among the crowd and let their emotions, their faith, wash over him. Idly, he lets his gaze travel across the square, taking in the Nativity, the giant tree and all the people gathered there.


¹ from Benedict XVI's homily spoken at the 2007 Christmas Midnight Mass. Official Vatican translation: "In some way, mankind is awaiting God, waiting for Him to draw near. But when the moment comes, there is no room for Him."
² I know Midnight Mass is actually 10pm this year. I also don't give a damn.

To say Uriel's place is off the beaten path is an understatement. Relying on the traditional means of transportation, one would have to leave the main interstate in favor of lesser traveled highways, turn off the highway onto a local road that hasn't been repaved in years, then leave the road for a dirt path that winds past railroad tracks, through fields of rice and corn, and over a couple small creeks. Other houses can be glimpsed through the trees on occasion, but to call the area a town would be something of a joke. It isn't a town so much as a general store and a scant handful of farmsteads scattered across the landscape. Time has not simply passed this place by, it almost seems to run backwards, the open fields and old homesteads a long-lost relic in a world full of concrete and glass metropolises. There is a sense of community about the area though, of people banding together for companionship in the otherwise-deserted countryside.

Uriel's place clearly needs work, but also shows sign of recent renovations. The wood siding is old and worn, white paint cracked and flaking away, but all the truly damaged pieces have been pulled away and replaced. Rusted fencing sits in a pile to the side, having been removed in favor of wide open spaces. The plants are growing wild, hydrangeas and wild rose bushes growing in an untamed riot around the porch, ancient mimosa and pecan trees surrounding the house, but the dead underbrush has been cleared away and there's not a single weed** to be found. The crumbling cement walkway leading to the house has been filled in with gravel, rotting wood on the porch torn out and replaced, the railing mended and repainted.

Inside, the house consists primarily of a single, large open space cluttered with an odd collection of old furniture and mismatched rugs. Books are stacked nigh unto everywhere, holy texts in nearly every language ever spoken, history books, classical literature, an assortment of how-to guides and even a few illustrated children's stories. At the back of the open room there are stairs leading up to what is presumably an attic, and a door that leads to an addition - not new, but certainly not part of the original plan - that houses a small kitchenette and the only bathroom.

Though crosses and signs have long since been torn down, broken stained glass windows replaced with heavy textured glass, the pews and pulpit inside removed, it retains something - an undefinable air or spirit - of the small church it once was. Perhaps that is why Uriel was drawn to it, damaged faith coming to rest where faith gathers no more.

If you are looking for him, he can be found on the front porch swing, looking relaxed in dirt-stained jeans and a white T-shirt, glass of iced tea in hand, absent-mindedly watching a pair of feral kittens as they race across the limbs of an old mimosa tree.


* Yes, it exists. No, it isn't called "Middle of Nowhere". The kittens were terribly cute. The raccoons were also terribly cute, but tended to be a pain in the ass.
** Well, there's always the kudzu, but good luck*** getting rid of that.
*** Actually, Uriel's gardening skills seem to quell even the kudzu. Poor angel has something of a black thumb. If the roses and hydrangeas weren't quite so stubbornly of the opinion "we were here first, you can sod off", they probably wouldn't last long either.