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Finally, the priest who was conducting the ceremony said, "Let us chant a prayer for all of those here who are participating for the first time in a Charismatic renewal."
Apparently I was not the only one. That made me feel better.
Everyone chanted a prayer. This time I just listened, asking that favors be granted to me.
I needed many.
"Let us receive the blessing," said the priest.
The crowd turned toward the illuminated grotto across the river. The priest said several prayers and blessed us all. Then everyone kissed, wished each other a "Happy Day of the Immacula
te Conception," and went their separate ways.
He came to me. His expression was happier than usual.
"You're soaked," he said.
"So are you!" I laughed.
We walked back to the car and drove to Saint-Savin. I'd been so eager for this moment to arrive--but now that it was here, I didn't know what to say. I couldn't even bring myself to talk about the house in the mountains, the ritual, the strange languages, or the tent prayers.
He was living in two worlds. Somewhere, those two worlds intersected--and I had to find where that was.
But at that moment, words were useless. Love can only be found through the act of loving.
"I've only got one sweater left," he said when we reached the room. "You can have it. I'll buy another for myself tomorrow."
"We'll put our wet things on the heater. They'll be dry by tomorrow. Anyway, I've got the blouse that I washed yesterday."
Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.
Clothing. Nakedness. Cold.
Finally, he took another shirt out of his bag. "You can sleep in this," he said.
"Great," I answered.
I turned out the light. In the dark, I took off my wet clothes, spread them over the heater, and turned it to high.
By the light from the lamppost outside the window, he must have been able to make out my silhouette and known that I was naked. I slipped the shirt on and crawled under the covers.
"I love you," I heard him say.
"I'm learning how to love you."
He lit a cigarette. "Do you think the right moment will come?" he asked.
I knew what he meant. I got up and sat on the edge of his bed.
The light from his cigarette illuminated our faces. He took my hand and we sat there for some time. I ran my fingers through his hair.
"You shouldn't have asked," I said. "Love doesn't ask many questions, because if we stop to think we become fearful. It's an inexplicable fear; it's difficult even to describe it. Maybe it's the fear of being scorned, of not being accepted, or of breaking the spell. It's ridiculous, but that's the way it is. That's why you don't ask--you act. As you've said many times, you have to take risks."
"I know. I've never asked before."
"You already have my heart," I told him. "Tomorrow you may go away, but we will always remember the miracle of these few days. I think that God, in Her infinite wisdom, conceals hell in the midst of paradise--so that we will always be alert, so that we won't forget the pain as we experience the joy of compassion."
He took my face in his hands. "You learn quickly," he said.
