The Minister Takes a Break

This is a work of fiction involving an unmarried minister and a single woman, both in their 30s. If the notion of a minister (or a physical therapist, for that matter) falling in love and having sex within a committed relationship offends you, please move on; this site has some wonderful romantic stories you will enjoy more. If you do like this story, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading -- and please vote!

*****

Sarah

The big man stood before me, his forehead slightly furrowed, his eyes unfocused.

"Ben," I said in my best commanding voice. "Into the pool. Let's get into the pool."

I took him by the wrist and led him toward the water. He followed, unresisting. I stopped at the edge, said, "Step down" in the same tone, and guided him onto the first step. His well-muscled legs took him into the water, step by slow step, without incident and I allowed myself a smile. Six weeks ago, the first time we had gone to the pool, he had tumbled in and I'd had to haul him upright, frantic with worry that he had injured himself further. My supervisor, Brad, had ticked me off about it, and rightly so. Ben's body, so fit and strong from his life before the accident, had lulled me into forgetting about the state of his brain. Amateur mistake.

"That's great, Ben!" I said encouragingly. "You're getting better all the time!"

Ben didn't smile. He didn't appear to have heard a word. But the research shows people can hear even when they don't show it, and I wanted to support this man in any way I could.

"Let's walk now, Ben. Walk in the water."

Pool walking is great therapy for people who have been injured in body or mind. The water cushions any falls they might take and provides resistance, keeping muscles toned. It also stimulates the skin in a positive way, and provides an instinctual comfort with its womblike buoyancy. We do a lot of it in physical therapy. In fact, I was surprised my fingers bothered to prune up anymore.

Ben obediently put his right foot forward and began walking. My colleague and friend Julie smiled at this progress from across the pool, where she was working with her own patient.

"Get those knees up!" I said, putting one hand under his thigh to bring his leg higher. "Gotta work those quads harder."

He snorted and I almost laughed. A response! His wife, now heavily pregnant with their second child, would be thrilled.

We walked up and down the pool for quite a while. I stayed close to him, but did not touch him unless he threatened to tip over or veer into someone else's path. His face remained expressionless, but I sensed he enjoyed moving through the chest-deep water. For one thing, he kept at it, which he didn't do for several of his other exercises. For another, his forehead lost its lines when he joined me in the pool. That might have meant nothing to an outsider, but I observed my patients carefully for signs like that. Tiny changes can signal huge progress after a head injury.

"Had enough yet?" I asked. Ben kept walking.

"OK. Five more minutes."

We continued our stroll, neither speeding up nor slowing down, until our time ran out. Although he probably could have walked for another thirty minutes, I needed to towel him off for his hour with the occupational therapist.

I patted his torso dry and the male nurse's assistant took charge of changing his clothes (our facility, always litigation-minded, has strict rules about such things). I gave his damp hair an affectionate tousle as Steve took him by the wrist.

"Bye, Ben. Great going today. You're doing so well. I can't wait to see what you do next!"

He gazed at me, his handsome face impassive, before Steve got him on his feet to leave. I turned to my iPad to record my notes on our session before I moved on to my next client.

Long ago, when I was in PT school, patients like Ben had gutted me. To see a strong, capable man like that reduced to the skill level of a toddler was almost more than I could bear. One of my smarter teachers had taken me aside after one particularly teary-eyed session and said something that fifteen years later, I still recalled nearly word for word.

"Sarah, sympathy doesn't do our patients one bit of good. To be effective as a therapist, you have to move past that reaction and look at what's best, long term, for your patients. You have to develop your own core of toughness, for your sake and theirs. When they're weak, you have to be strong. And as they get stronger, you have to be even tougher. A physical therapist can't coddle anyone. Not her patients. Not their families. Not herself. And if you can't manage that, you have no damn business being here."

And so I had learned how to walk that tightrope, to show positivity when I felt hopeless, to coax, goad and bully patients into pushing themselves hard enough to improve. Although I usually developed great affection for them, I learned not to show that until the final visit, lest they see weakness they could exploit.

Some patients, of course, never recovered. I went to every funeral I could, and cried along with their families.

"Whatcha doing tonight?" Julie asked, picking up her iPad and plopping down on the bench next to me.

"Trivia with Seamus and his buddies at Sky-High Pie."

Julie sighed.

"Shameless, not Seamus. I still don't know why you like that guy."

"He's funny, and I can't get enough of his accent."

"For someone so smart, you sure can be stupid."

"Nobody's perfect, wiseass. Besides, he's great in the sack."

She sighed again and rolled her eyes. "You have the most complex love life of anyone I know."

"Goes with the territory," I grinned. "I like men, therefore nothing's easy. In fact, you could say everything is hard."

"You're an idiot."

"Don't I know it! You know I would totally go gay for you if I could."

She rolled her eyes again.

"Like I would date someone as shallow as you."

"I'm not actually shallow," I said, typing in my final notes on Ben. "I just can't pick men. I always fall for a face or a voice, then learn the awful truth later."

"Ladies, if I may interrupt your fascinating discussion, your next patients await your kind attention and ministrations."

We both looked up guiltily, but Brad simply smiled at us, nodded and left as quietly as he had appeared.

"He's so weird," Julie said after the door had closed behind him. "He's perfect for you. Why don't you date him?"

"I don't date colleagues. Besides, he's not my type."

"Yeah, he has a good job, is real smart, and even I think he's cute. Why would you want him?"

I rose and placed my tablet back in its slot.

"Blonds leave me cold. You know that."

"You're so weird. I'm telling you, Brad and you are made for each other."

"You're the weird one," I replied. "I'm perfectly happy with Seamus. He's delightful and spontaneous."

Julie sighed and got to her feet.

"He's flighty and probably breaks hearts like other men break wind. Thank God I like women."

Later, as I drove up to Sky-High Pie, I thought about Julie and smiled. She really is a dear, and I usually love her candor. I happened to disagree with her about Seamus, but they had disliked each at first sight, although neither could tell me why. Well, I had to allow her a few quirks.

The restaurant had already started to fill up, but Seamus and company had charmed the staff so completely that they held a table for them each week, despite their "no reservations" policy. Heidi, our regular waitress, showed me to the table.

"Early as usual," she said over her shoulder as she led me. "Unfortunately, you're not in my section tonight."

"Too bad," I said, genuinely regretful. I liked Heidi. She was quick and efficient and completely capable of giving the guys as good as she got. They adored her.

"Well, at least I can glimpse them from across the room."

"Especially Liam," I teased.

"That is one fine-looking man," she said. "Has he dumped his girlfriend yet?"

"I expect we'll find out tonight." I sat down. "I'll wait to order till the guys get here."

Heidi nodded. "Jen's your waitress tonight. I'll tell her not to bother till the rest of the crew gets here. The way this joint is filling up, she'll be OK waiting anyway. We're gonna be slammed, I can tell."

As the minutes ticked by, I played a game on my phone, occasionally smiling as I thought of Seamus and his special brand of nonsense. His charisma radiated from him like heat from the sun. Like everyone else who knew him, I basked in his energy, enjoying the carefree person I became when I was with him.

My phone beeped suddenly, and a text alert flashed across the top of the screen. Seeing my boyfriend's name, I clicked on it.

"Sarah, I can't make it tonight."

Damn, I thought. Another text popped up.

"Actually, I might as well say it now: I can't see you anymore."

My jaw dropped and time seemed to stop for a moment. A third text appeared.

"My other girlfriend found out about you. Sorry."

Andy

Being a minister often leads to meeting some terrific people -- but dating-wise, it's kind of a dud job. In my experience, anyway.

Now, I'm a fairly normal guy -- for a clergyman, at least. I graduated from some good schools and got a degree in social work, just because. I volunteered in Haiti after the earthquake and found myself helping put the dead into body bags, holding grieving mothers as they said goodbye to their babies and facing some other terrible shit no one should ever see -- along with witnessing the radiance of young islanders' faces in church on Sunday mornings, their well-worn clothes (and often, rags) immaculate, their eyes sparkling, somehow, with hope.

But to balance all that, I have a slightly unhealthy interest in female basketball players (those legs!), am a little too good at pub trivia games, and love science fiction and fantasy. (And if you haven't read the Harry Potter books, or Anne McCaffrey's Pern series, why not? They're fabulous!). I probably could eat better and get to the gym more. So really, not much extraordinary about me, if you take away the whole ministry thing.

Which is why I can't figure out why, at age 37, I am still alone. Women profess to find me adorable -- right until I ask them out. Then they stammer and hedge and invent improbable boyfriends or issues. Honestly, it's depressing. I blame TV, movies and novels for portraying clergy as these ethereal beings who either have no earthly passions or are raging predators and/or pedophiles. Hell, the show that came closest to depicting a real, flesh-and-blood minister was "The Vicar of Dibley."

Again, depressing.

So I live my life, and comfort the bereaved, and placate the finance committee chair, and try to preach so compellingly that even the Baxter kid will put down his phone and listen, and will counsel people who have no damn business even thinking of getting married, much less setting a date. Through it all I wonder: Am I ever going to find a woman who sees me as a regular person instead of some weird hybrid of authority figure and bloodless mystic? One who loves me for who I am, and who makes me laugh so hard I practically wet my pants? And then I think, maybe I should just try to get laid, like every other guy. Maybe that's a more attainable goal.

Sigh.

As I left Mercy General, buttoning my coat against the wind, I reflected on Stella Gibson, whom I had just left. Physically frail, increasingly deaf, and certainly dying, Stella nevertheless retained a certain spirit that must have both enchanted and terrified the boys who knew her back in her youth. I smiled. I visited Stella to give her comfort, but she gave me a far greater gift: entertainment. Although her piercing delivery gives a good idea of how the great trumpet of Gabriel will sound, she is an absolute doll. We had laughed together, prayed together, and grown together in a way I could not have imagined before she became so ill. Funny, I thought, that impending death either drew people together or split them apart -- little middle ground seemed to exist.

Although I often held her chilly hand during my visits, gently massaging the fragile skin to give her some of my warmth, she had grabbed my wrist with surprising strength as I got up to leave.

"It's time," she had announced, and my heart plunged towards the floor.

"Do you need the doctor?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not for me, silly. For you. It's time for you to find a nice girl." She paused. "Or man. But I've been watching you for years and I think you prefer women."

I gulped, flummoxed. "Uh, yes. I like women."

She nodded. "Go find one. It's time."

"Yes, Stella."

"Don't take that meek tone with me, young man. I've lived a long time and I know a thing or two about a thing or two. If you don't find your woman, and soon, your window will close." She sighed. "It's time. Quit dragging your feet."

I patted the delicate skin. "OK, Stella. I'll try. Don't fret yourself."

"Don't try. Make it happen -- or so help me, I'll come back and haunt you after I die."

My lips quirked. "Surely you have better people to haunt."

She regarded me through half-closed eyes.

"I don't know about that. Seems to me haunting a preacher would be quite a feather in my ghostly cap."

"Do ghosts wear caps?"

She closed her eyes.

"You're a dreadful man, Andrew Simmons. A gentleman would let a lady have the last word."

I leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Bye, beautiful. See you tomorrow."

"Happy hunting," she said, not opening her eyes.

Outside, I turned my collar up against the wind and shivered across the parking lot, still hearing her voice. The encounter now struck me as a little uncanny. I wondered suddenly if I would, in fact, see Stella tomorrow. Shaking my head to dispel the idea, I climbed into my car and cranked the heat and the music way up.

Back at the church, I eased in through a side door, hoping to avoid the self-proclaimed communications director. You see, we're not a big church. About 100 people attend on any given Sunday, with maybe twice that on the Big Two. Like every other mainline Protestant church, we would love to have more companions join us as we journey towards Christ, but when it comes down to how to make that happen, the membership committee can't make up its mind -- assuming committees have minds, which I frankly doubt. Nevertheless, about a month about I joined the staff, Connie Atkins decided we needed to focus on "communications," which she has never actually defined, to reach new members.

Connie is one of those terrifying forces of nature that infest most volunteer-driven organizations. In fact, I have never known a church that did not have at least one such woman to browbeat the other members into doing her bidding. Sadly, Connie's entire campaign appears focused on communicating with me. Given that I barely tolerate her (it's a long story involving her manipulation of a secret Santa gift exchange), it has not gone well. Still, she continues to persevere and I continue to avoid her. But a minister cannot hide forever, and Connie takes full advantage of the fact that I have to be nice to her.

(In case you're wondering, my office is on the ground floor and it does have a window. However, I have not yet used it as an escape hatch, mostly out of fear that another parishioner will witness my attempt and post it on YouTube, where it would immediately go viral.)

Today, the coast seemed clear and I offered a short prayer of gratitude as I walked to my office. My visit with Stella had taken longer than planned, and I needed to outline Sunday's sermon before I could leave for Thursday night trivia at Sky-High Pie, a local pizzeria that also makes wonderful desserts.

Waiting for my laptop to boot up, I closed my eyes. My mind drifted back to Stella and her image of windows of opportunity opening and closing during our lives, then moved on to that saying about God opening a window when He closes a door. An image formed, of a skylight open in a room of closed windows and drawn curtains: God working around our human limitations and stupid clichés. Grinning, I leaned forward and scribbled down details as quickly as they came to me. I love it when the Holy Spirit bails out my sorry ass!

An hour later, details clear and sharp in my mind (and on my flash drive), I shut my laptop and headed out the door, looking forward to an evening with my trivia buddies, a couple of beers and the best pizza in the suburbs. One thing about being a minister, you treasure the times when you can just be a normal person. Thursdays were my nights of normalcy.

My phone's text alert beeped as I pulled into the parking lot. I glanced down. Ashley. I sighed. Ashley never texts unless she has to bail.

"Bob slipped on ice & hurt his back. Sorry. Kick some butt w/o us. Text u l8r."

I swore. Ashley's a paramedic and had everything under control, I knew. But still.

"Tell Bob he's a silly klutz, but I love him anyway. Take care & text when you know more. XOXO."

I looked at the building and considered. I had driven nearly an hour to get here, but would have to compete alone unless another team wanted me. On the other hand, I'd get some good pizza and beer and, if I was lucky, a slice of five-layer chocolate pie for dessert.

Chocolate pie! Why was I even thinking about this? I got out of the car.

Inside, all the tables were already occupied. I looked around to see if I recognized anyone, but no faces stuck out. I did spot a woman alone at a booth for four, drumming her fingers on the table and looking annoyed. Maybe someone had canceled on her too. I flattened myself against the wall and watched the room, looking for an opening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the woman jabbing at her cell phone. She pushed it away from her, then glared at it. After a few seconds, she looked at her purse and coat, clearly trying to decide what to do. I walked over and made my move.

"Um, excuse me," I said, aiming for apologetic and (I hoped) disarming.

"What?"

"Um, forgive me for intruding, but my friends just bailed on me tonight, and, again, forgive me, but it looks like you're not having a good night either?"

"Not so far," she snapped. "That prick just broke up with me."

"Ah," I said. "Well, I could hardly blame you for being upset and wanting to leave then."

"I don't necessarily want to leave. What I want is for him and his girlfriend to get arrested for ... for spying on North Korea and wind up in a prison camp over there."

"Ah. Well, I don't have any clout in North Korea, so I can't actually help you with that one."

She sighed.

"Story of my life."

"What I can do is buy you some pizza and beer and be your partner in a cutthroat trivia contest."

She looked at me sharply.

"That is the worst combination of bad timing and bad pickup lines I have ever heard."

"If I were actually trying to pick you up, I would totally agree. But to be brutally honest, what I'm trying to do is get your table. This place is packed."

She glanced around.

"That it is." She redirected her look at me. "How much beer?"

"All you can hold. I got paid yesterday."

She almost smiled.

"You got a deal. No two-timing jerk is going to take me down."

I slid onto the bench opposite her. "Damn right. Good for you."

The waitress appeared and I ordered a pitcher and a sausage pie, keeping an eye on my companion for signs of rejection. When her face brightened at the mention of linguiça sausage (a New England thing I learned to appreciate in college), I relaxed.

"Sustenance will help us both," I said as our server walked away. "I don't know about you, but I'm famished. I have been waiting all day for this."