Devotion

Delfina was crying. I was crying. Behind us, the sun rose merrily in the eastern sky, oblivious to our anguished hearts. As I embraced her, tasting the bitter sweetness of her tears, I felt her fingertips desperately clutching mine—first to her brow, then her bosom, her left shoulder then her right. She shuddered, and a fresh torrent of sobs broke over her like a wave in the ocean she was forming on my shoulder.

"Frank? Will you lead us in prayer?" My mother's sparkling, cornflower-blue eyes fixed on my face. I could practically feel the joy radiating off her in waves as we sat around the antique oak dining table for a lavish lunch. My brothers and sisters and my father completed the loving circle of my family.

"Sure," I nodded agreeably, eyeing the delicious prime rib Mother had fussed over since early that morning. "Are we ready?" I made the Sign of the Cross, extended a hand to Patrick on my left and Maggie on my right, and began a prayer I had engraved on my consciousness since I was an infant. "Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts, which we are about to receive..."

Outside, the warm spring afternoon sprinkled delicate raindrops down upon our city as if bestowing its own blessing upon my life. And my life was so filled with blessings that I didn't know if it could accommodate any more without deliriously collapsing beneath all their dizzying weight .

It seemed that I had been born, twenty-six years ago, for the path unfolding before me. When delicate, fair, ginger-haired Colleen O'Reardon had nuzzled me to her bosom, she had prayed for her dear wee Francis to devote himself to God, as God had shown her tender mercy, and not taken me away from her despite a very dangerous and difficult labor and delivery.

Ours was a very devout household—our parents wouldn't have it any other way. Neither would our grandparents, who weren't above hopping the earliest flight out of Dublin to fly in and pile on more grief and guilt if we weren't good Catholics, or good children, or both.

They had done this trick when little Margaret got herself into some almost irreparable trouble with Toni Mancino a few years back. My father caught them in "terrible and disgusting acts" with each other. My mother fell to her knees and prayed as Tony hastily drew his pants back up and, followed by my roaring father, retreated to the back door. My brother Peter appeared with the cordless, and hand it to my mother. Her fingers flew over the buttons. Her heavily accented American English was being overtaken by her Gaelic as she frantically sobbed to her own mother over the thousands of miles.

Thank God, Mary and all the Blessed Saints that Maggie hadn't gone all the way with Tony—I think they truly would have packed her off to some rustic Irish convent and never let her see the light of day again. As it was, she was subjected to a constant stream of rage and sobbing from Mother, an endless run of her silver rosary from Father Flannery, and a lot of hushed and intense conversations behind closed doors with our stern, quiet Gram. Most of these resulted in Maggie sobbing hysterically and running to Mother's arms, begging for forgiveness. For forgiveness, and for the Blessed Virgin to help her find the strength to renew her slightly tarnished purity.

Out of all six children, I had been the only one who really found comfort in our faith. Perhaps it was due to my traumatic entrance into this world, but I can recall the peace and wonder I felt sitting upon my Dad's knee during Mass, watching the priest as he swung the censer and intoned the sacred chants that priests have uttered for centuries. It was the depth of devotion and adherence to ceremony that our congregation embraced so happily which made such sacrifices as Lent and even chastity bearable. I understood and embraced the reasons behind them.

Whatever the cause, I had never been as tempted as my siblings to stray. Margaret had always enjoyed pushing the envelope. She began at a very early age—she found a tube of candy-pink lipstick that belonged to her best friend's older sister. Not only did she steal it, but she also applied it in secret when she thought no one would catch her. Unfortunately for her, Mother did. And then there were all the low-cut shirts and short skirts that she managed to smuggle into the house and keep hidden away. She would hurry out in long, concealing coats to try and get one off on the parents.

Joe, my older brother, always gave his fair share of trouble as well, though it looked as if it wouldn't always be legal trouble. And that, eventually, I'd be paying him visits in prison

Motivated by love for family and God, I decided fairly early in life that I wanted to know more about the church. I wanted to experience the mysticism of being closer to God in the way that only the clergy can be. To feel the strength of my faith as it pulled me through difficult moments and temptations. To shepherd new souls into our faith. To help those souls about to leave us to be prepared to greet Our Father, and to ascend to Heaven with prayer and gentle guidance. I wanted to be a servant of God.

So it was that I passed through the usually turbulent years of my teens with the gift of serenity. Of course, I had my moments of doubt. I even dabbled in the odd joint or drunken evening with friends on occasion. But the biggest temptation I ever had to face came from a freckle-faced little girl who blossomed into a creature who floated through our neighborhood like Venus arising from the sea. The change within the beautiful young girl seemed to occur overnight. And, wherever she walked, the sun shone a bit brighter and the air had a sweeter freshness about it.

Delfinan Adriana DiFranco—never Didi or Delfie, but always Delfina—had grown up two blocks from our crowded colonial house, and she bloomed almost unnoticed right under my nose. Her father owned a very successful shoe shop and her mother was able to stay home caring for her children during a time when the married housewife was fast becoming an endangered species.

Somehow—while I was helping keep my little brothers and sister from playing in the street, helping Mother feed my cherubic baby brother Patrick, or toiling over homework—lanky little Delfina had transformed from the gum-chewing, rope-skipping little tomboy into a sixteen-year-old angel in ivory sandals and curve-hugging Capri pants.

Just a glimpse of Delfina passing by our house in the summertime—her little sister Lucia trailing behind in a concerted effort to keep up —would be enough to make me give pause if I was out cutting the grass or playing ball with Peter and Joseph. But woe to my poor denied libido if she happened to be holding an ice-cream cone or wearing a pair of shorts over her bikini so she could take a break from tanning to run to the store for her mother.

Moments like these would clearly define the O'Reardon boys. Joseph would whistle and make lewd gestures with a lusty grin, Peter would blush furiously and tentatively raise a hand in greeting, and I would only look hurriedly away and think about baptisms and weddings.

While Joseph's future was murky at best, my path was abundantly clear. I was going to become a priest, much to my mother's tearful embraces and most likely answered prayers .

During my senior year, I spent a lot of time helping out wherever I could at St. Monica's. I talked with the aging Father Flannery about the responsibilities of my future career, and about baseball. We played chess sometimes, since this seemed to ease the weight of the difficult topics we discussed.

"You're a good-looking boy, Francis," he would comment offhandedly. "You would make a fine husband and father. Are you sure this is the path you want to pursue?"

"Yes, Father," I had replied, keeping a close eye on my priest's next move. He was crafty, and would often distract me with serious contemplation, then promptly check me. "I just want to help people and belong to God. I mean... not that I don't now. I just want that closeness, you know? To know that I will be helping people every day and that I'll have a really special relationship with God. It's really important to me."

"Well, then," Father Flannery had sighed, running one sure and steady hand through his silvery hair. "I will do what ever I can to help you achieve this desire, Francis. Have you decided which seminary you'd like to attend?"

That autumn afternoon had been the start of my journey into the priesthood. During my senior year, I was accepted by one of the most respected seminaries on the East Coast. After I graduated high school—and spent time walking the streets contemplating my future and the commitment it required—I moved onto the campus of my seminary .

The morning I was packing my modest collection of suitcases and boxes into my mother's car, Delfina came strolling past with her dog Mocha. Mocha was a gorgeous chocolate Labrador who never tugged at the leash but kept pace at her mistress's side and regarded the world around her with an almost Zen-like tranquility.

"Hi, Frank!" she called from halfway up the block. "Where are you off to?"

I turned to greet her, extending a hand as golden morning sunlight cascaded down her gorgeous dark hair and sparkled in her large, jewel-like eyes.

"Seminary." I blushed, feeling awkward about it for the first time in months. My fingers enfolded the delicate hand she offered. The blush crept up my cheeks into my hairline. I felt guilty that I had not taken the time to tell her before. Delfina noticed my embarrassment and offered an angelic smile.

"Oh, wow. I didn't know. Surprising, isn't it? I figured your mom would have told everyone in the tri-state area!" I laughed, shaking my head.

"I think she's expecting I won't make it. She's been having a hard time with Joe lately, and I think she won't be convinced until I make it through school and come back to be ordained." There was a brief flicker in those eyes that were almost the color of golden amber. Had it been regret? Incredulity?

"Well, good luck to you. It will be really kind of weird having to confess to you." She cracked a charming grin, leaning in close enough for me to catch a hint of the sweet floral perfume she wore. "Here's my first one. Let's see..." she lowered her head, removed her hand from mine to quickly cross herself, then folded her hands. "Bless me, Frank, for I have sinned. It's been two months since my last confession. Remember when we were trick-or-treating when we were eleven. and you dropped your candy? Remember how I helped you pick it up?" She moved even closer, her eyes glittering. "When you weren't looking, I stole all the peanut-butter cups I could see. So, if you ever wondered why you didn't get any..." An effervescent bubble of laughter burst from her garnet lips. "Sorry about that. Am I forgiven?"

Mocha approached, sniffed my hand, and then licked it with a warm pink tongue.

"Yeah," I smiled back. "I think so . Well, take care, Delfina. I'll see ya around."

"Yeah. You too. God... Seminary? I can't believe it. Anyway, take care of yourself, Francis." With that, she reached out and offered me an embrace that smelled of warm autumn sunshine and Dior perfume. I felt an erection spring to life as I embraced the fully mature yet youthful curves of a woman who was not a relative. Her full breasts pressed against my chest, and she offered me a soft kiss on the cheek before disengaging herself from me and walking away.

I felt a pang of sadness and regret at that moment as I watched her hurry off. Her voice was sweet and silvery as she playfully scolded Mocha, who paused to look back at me with lazy doggy eyes. I caught myself gazing at the slender beauty of Delfina's tanned legs as they went on forever into the denim cutoffs she wore. I watched the rounded musculature of her bottom as she walked away, then let my eyes linger on the glossy curtain of her wavy hair, and imagined how soft it would feel against my cheek.

I promptly decided that, before my trip, I should pray for a safe journey, and hurriedly returned to loading the car.

**

At seminary, I truly felt I could relate to my peers for the first time. No cajoling older brother chiding me while I said my morning prayers. Writing homilies was a praised art-form instead of a chore that required immense concentration and the tuning out of my immense and noisy family. I enjoyed all facets of my study. From political science to philosophy, I kept myself so busy with reading and thinking that my old friends and old life seemed a bit of a distant memory—an old comfortable existence that brought a smile to my face, but didn't make me pine for what I'd left.

Of course I missed Mother's cooking and glimpses of the lovely Delfina as she went for a walk or helped her mother to plant flowers in their front yard. But there was lots of entertainment in the sleepy little East Coast town where my seminary was located, and a chance just to observe the wonders and the beauty of life. I got to know the active members of our diocese, and formed close bonds with my brothers who had come from all over the world to study and prepare for a life serving God and helping Him to shepherd his flock.

All we seminarians were men, after all, and we soon formed close relationships as young men in similar situations often do. We prayed together to help each other through moments of uncertainty and difficulty. When Matthew's little brother was in a car accident, and he could not keep himself from silently weeping during evening prayer, I touched his elbow and told him that I sympathized with what he was going through . He knew that my commiseration was not just empty words.

The time I spent preparing for my life as a priest was so untroubled that I had to thank God for opening such a smooth and uncorrupted path. I looked forward to learning how to minister to my future parish. I enjoyed long walks in the beautiful eastern countryside, and kept up with my favorite sports teams and their progress through the seasons. And I attended classes and meditation with anxious delight, overjoyed with the new direction my life was taking.

I was in my second year when I stumbled. We were preparing to welcome some local deacons for dinner. And Caroline Hutchins—one of the women helping to prepare the luncheon—broke her leg the evening before., She phoned to apologize that she hadn't even made it to the market yet to purchase the ingredients for the dish she had been planning to bring the following day..After Juliatn —the most light hearted and humorous of us— paid her a visit at her home to cheer her up, and ask what we could do to help, we found ourselves pitching in a little bit more than expected. .

"Mrs. Hutchins said she was just going to go to the Farmer's Market to pick up the ingredients to make the salad ," Julian reported after returning from the visit . "Frank, if you would go pick up what's on this list here, it would really help out for tomorrow." He handed me a list of ingredients in Caroline's dainty script.

"Yeah, I could do that," I nodded. I took off my hooded sweatshirt and decided to go in just my polo shirt and slacks. It was warm and sunny outside, and the prospect of being out in the fragrant spring air delighted me. "Let me go get my wallet."

"Oh, no. She insisted on giving me the money. She feels awful about what happened, God bless her, and said it was the least she could do."

"May she have a speedy recovery," I smiled, truly touched by the generosity and kindness of the woman. "I'll go do that now."

**

The Farmer's Market was just outside the little town, and it was pretty crowded. Women brought home-made baked goods and lemonade to sell along with all the fresh fruits and vegetables sold by the basket, bushel or bag. I smiled as a tow-haired little girl waved to me, grinning around a lollipop. I recognized her from Family Mass at St. Cecilia 's and nodded to her nearby mother, who was clutching several baskets of strawberries.

I made my way toward a bin that was piled high with lettuce. The young woman tending the produce was bent over, retrieving another large carton to place on the table. Her legs were extended and her calf muscles flexed as she struggled to lift the heavy carton.

"Let me help you with that, miss" I offered, hurrying around the trestle table to lift the carton for her.

She glanced up at me with grateful pale-blue eyes and smiled from a face so beautiful and sweet that my breath caught for a moment. She wore her red hair pulled back into a plait that hung well past her narrow bottom when she stood, and a tank-top almost the same shade as her enchanting eyes.

"Thanks," she panted, helping me set out the lettuce and reaching up to mop her brow with the back of one wrist. Her breasts strained against the fabric of her shirt, and no bra restrained them. As she brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, the hem of her shirt rode up to reveal an alabaster strip of her belly and the unmistakable glint of a navel ring.

"No problem," I nodded, unable to take my eyes from her figure—the round fullness of her breasts, the cleavage that the scoop neck of her shirt revealed. The tiny waist and the robust flare of her hips within the denim shorts she wore. The shapely legs. My cheeks were aflame with embarrassment.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" she inquired politely, seeing the confusion and discomfiture on my face.

"Oh... Yes, I am, actually. I have a list here, and I just happen to need a lot of lettuce."

"Well, I can help you out with that."

I did not enjoy my trip into town that afternoon as I had always done in the past. Of course, I was human. I was a man, born with original sin and the desire for pleasures of the flesh. But I had always prided myself on being fortunate enough that I could always redirect that desire. I hadn't been so assailed by it since the morning I left for college and Delfina had embraced me.

Later that night, as I lay on my bed, my mind returned to the girl in the market. Across the room from me, my roommate Eric's peaceful snores stretched on as the minutes passed. Visions of long, shapely legs and curvaceous hips floated completely unbidden into my mind. The shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her shirt and the tiny suggestion of her nipples lingered in my brain as I tossed restlessly beneath the thin blanket and sheet, the movement of my undershirt and boxers against my skin more maddening than usual.

And that navel piercing? Oh, how luscious it was! True, it was not respectful to the temple that was the human body—but how it glittered and sparkled for that brief instant against the milky, toned flesh of her lightly freckled belly. And that face... Oh, those lips...

I had swelled to painful arousal. Sighing, I tried to lie on my belly to quash the unbidden invasion, but the friction of the firm mattress against my cock only made things worse. I reached down to try and adjust myself, and the brush of my fingertips through the cotton of my underwear made my breath catch. My hand lingered. Squeezed. My stomach lurched and my mouth run dry.

All I could think of was those breasts and that bottom. And that navel... I imagined plunging my tongue into it. What must the cool metal of that ring feel like against my hot tongue? Would she shiver when I did it? What color were her nipples? I thought they'd be a lovely pale pink.

My hand had begun to rhythmically caress my cock, and I let out a longing sigh, lost in my fantasies. An abrupt burst of loud snores from Eric's bed startled me and I jumped, snapping back to reality and realizing what I had done.

"Oh, God—forgive me!" I panted, sliding off the bed to fall upon my knees beside it, my hair plastered to my brow with perspiration, my breath trembling. My traitorous cock still throbbed demandingly, and I clasped my hands together below my chin, keeping them as far from my crotch as I could manage.