Poppy would love it here.
I was shaky and empty-feeling from crying last night, like my soul had been poured out of me along with my tears. I should kneel, I knew, I should kneel and close my eyes and bow my head, but instead, I laid down on one of the pews. It was made of unforgiving wood, hard and cold, but I didn’t have the energy to support myself for a moment longer, and so I stayed there, blinking sightlessly at the back of the pew in front of me with its missals and attendance cards and tiny, dull golf pencils.
Tell me what to do, God.
I guessed that a part of me had hoped that I would wake up and it would all be some terrible nightmare, some hallucination brought forth to test my faith, but no, it wasn’t. I really had caught Poppy and Sterling together yesterday. I really had fallen in love just to have the shit kicked out of me (by the very woman I’d wanted to marry.)
Do I leave the clergy and hope Poppy will take me back? Do I try to find her? Talk to her? And what’s the best thing for the Church—for me to stay? Is the Church more important than Poppy?
There was nothing. The distant roar of city traffic outside, the dim light glinting dully off the wood of the pew.
I don’t even get an air conditioner now? Now? Of all the times, now is when I get nothing?
I was quite aware I was being petulant, but I didn’t care. Even Jacob had to wrestle his blessing out of God, so if I had to pout my way into one, I would.
Except I was tired. And empty. I couldn’t keep whining, even if I wanted to, so instead my thoughts wandered, my prayers becoming aimless—wordless even—as I simply just contemplated where I found myself. Here in a church that wasn’t my own, alone and wounded. I’d brought harm to my parish through my actions and had betrayed the trust of my bishop and my parishioners—the thing I had tried the hardest not to do since becoming a priest.
I’d failed.
I’d failed as a priest and as a man and as a friend.
I stared at the stone floor, blinking slowly in the silence. So would I stay? Would remaining a priest be the best way to atone? Would that be the best for the church? For my soul? Quitting now, not on my own terms, felt like a petulant act of self-hatred, an I screw everything up, so I quit kind of act, and whatever decision I made about my future, it had to come from someplace other than that.
It had to come from God.
Unfortunately, He didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood today.
Maybe the real question was, could I still imagine life without the priesthood and without Poppy? I’d decided to quit because of my love for her, but once I had made the decision, I had felt all these other potential futures rolling out in front of me—inspiring, intoxicating, invigorating futures. There were so many ways I could serve God, and what if that was what all of this was about? Not about bringing me and Poppy together, but about nudging me out of the comfortable bubble I’d created for myself? A bubble where I could only do so much, and I would always have an excuse for not dreaming bigger and better, a bubble where it was easy to cultivate stasis and stagnation in the name of humble service.
So many of the things I’d wanted to do when I was younger—things like Poppy had done, such as extended mission trips—had become impossible once I’d settled into a parish. But if I were free, I could go fight famine in Ethiopia or spend a summer teaching English in Belarus or dig wells in Kenya. I could go anywhere, anytime.
With anyone.
Well, not anyone. Because when I closed my eyes and summoned the dusty plains of Pokot or the forests of Belarus and lost myself into wordless fantasies of the future, there was only one person I imagined beside me. Someone short and slender, with dark hair and red lips. Carrying water with me, or maybe it was fresh notebooks for the children, or maybe it was just her sunglasses as we laced fingers to walk to a community meeting together. Maybe she was in the hammock above me, where I could see the diamond-shaped trace works the hammock had made on her skin, or maybe we were sharing a stark, unheated dorm together, curled like twin commas on a hard bed.
But wherever we were, we were helping people. In the kind of direct, physical—sometimes intimate—ways that Jesus had helped people. Healing the sick with his hands, curing the blind with mud and saliva. Getting his hands dirty, his sandals dusty. That was one of the real differences between Jesus and the Pharisees, wasn’t it? One went out among the people and the others stayed indoors, arguing over yellowing scrolls while their people were casually brutalized by an indifferent empire.
I remembered the moment I’d chosen to be a priest, the excitement, the burning anticipation I’d felt. And I felt it now, like the brushing of dove’s wings and a baptism of fire all at the same time, because it was becoming clear. Not just clear, but obvious.
I sat up.
God wanted me in the real world and in the midst of the ordinary lives of His people. Maybe the plans He had for Tyler Bell were so much more exciting and wonderful than I’d ever counted on.
Is this what You want? I asked. For me to leave—not for Poppy, not for the bishop, but for me? For You?
And the word came into my mind with a calm, resonant authority.
Yes.
Yes.
It was time for me to stop. Time for me to leave my life as a priest.
Here was the answer I’d wanted, the path I had asked for, except it wasn’t really what I had asked for, because before, I’d been asking the wrong question.
This time there was nothing showy—no burning bushes, no tingly feelings, no beams of sunlight. There was only a quiet, contemplative peace, and the knowledge that my feet were now pointed to the path. I only had to take the first step.
And when I called the bishop later that night to tell him my decision, my newfound peace remained. We both knew that it was the right decision—for me and for the church—and just like that, my life as a priest, as Father Tyler Bell, came to a subdued and solemn end.
That next weekend was Irish Fest, and I’d already said goodbye to my parishioners and cleared out the rectory, so there was no reason for me to drive up there, even though I hated missing out on the kickoff for the church’s fundraiser.
“Afraid they’ll stone you?” Sean said when I mentioned I wasn’t going. (I was staying with him until I found a place of my own.)
I shook my head. Actually, despite the national splash on social media, where I was simultaneously demonized and turned into something of a celebrity because of my looks, my own parishioners had reacted so much better than I deserved. They told me they wanted me to stay—some actually begged me to stay—others thanked me for talking openly about abuse—some simply hugged me and wished me well. And I gave them honest answers to whatever questions they asked; they deserved that from me at least, a complete and open accounting of my sins, so that there would be no shadow of doubt, no circulating rumors. I didn’t want my sin to stain the community any further than it absolutely had to.
But at the same time, despite their warmth and love, it wouldn’t be healthy for me to go back. Even as I’d packed up my things last week, I’d been haunted by Poppy, and after Dad and I had loaded everything into the moving van, I made some excuses about saying goodbye to a few extra people, and went to her house. I had no plan for what I would say, and even then I wasn’t sure if I was furious with her or desperate for her or both—the kind of betrayed where only her body would be able to heal me, even though it was the thing that had hurt me.