Being man (part 6)

I blurted out laughing. “For God’s sake, Mark! A seminarian falling in love with a girl does not sound like a real problem to me, in the least. Why, are you nuts?” my voice almost squeaked. “It’s absolutely and humanly normal to fall in love. It’s perfectly sane for a young man to be emotionally involved with a young woman. Seminarians are still human beings who have hearts, you know, and therefore are capable of loving, or if you please, have the right to love,” I pointed out.

“I do understand every bit you squeaked.” A pale try at humor.

“Sorry. But I don’t think you do. You’re being too scrupulous. What I do think is, it is inexplicable that you are bothered by such issue as being in love at all. Unless, of course, if you’re already one of them. I mean, a priest.” Wrong, I heard myself challenged me. “Oh, but even priests may still fall in love, you see. So stop worrying.”

“No, you don’t understand, Ken. And I do have all the reasons to worry.”

“Mark, listen. Call this a test, all right? Just get a feel of everything that’s going on in your heart. It will do you some good. Being at it will help you clarify the reasons why seminary structure and routine still do mean a lot to you. You’ll be able to see more clearly where you really belong. Look at me. I tried St. Patrick, well, not only because you would be there but also because I wanted to see if it just might be my life. I realized it was not, so I left. What you feel right now may help you choose the way to go. College will be over, Mark, and you’ll have to choose, theologate or what? ”

“You don’t know a bit of what’s making me down and out because you haven’t heard a single thing from me yet.”

That kicked the hell out of me. Whatever I still had in my mind was left lodged in my throat. I was surprised to realize that I hadn’t actually given him a chance to really talk, and he had already been beating his third beer to his belly.

“Ken, yours were well-meant, I know. And thanks,” he went on, “but it’s not what you think that is pulling me to only hell knows where . . . I can’t keep it any longer. It’s tearing me.” He ran his left hand across his face as though drying it up. An air of gloom hung around where a romantic one once was. His sighs and deep breaths became more frequent, as I drank from my bottle. He rose to his feet and began to pace toward the water. He paused where the water was almost halfway to the knee. He ran his fingers through his black hair, which shone in the moonlight, and drank down his beer in several swift gulps.

“Ken,” he pronounced, his back toward me, “I’ve fallen for a guy.” (January, 1998)

To be continued...