The first time I saw her was in the church.
not remember having felt before something divine on earth was so close to me and I had touched.
Play Mass every Sunday was something that at first my mother made me do. I can confess without fear really hated not being able to be on the beach, playing cards or just doing nothing instead of having to go to church to hear the Mass. I found it boring, exhausting, pointless. I say this without offending, being honest, but always ended up going every Sunday pretending to be a believer when in fact he did not believe in anything or anyone.
The churches all at that time was like a prison for me. Within it, all the time that lasted the Mass I felt like a prisoner. I tried to make my mind to be distracted at the silliest things. I started memorizing everything his father's words, the passionate, delusional religious songs, then the faces, the location of some people. I came to identify those who gave alms and those who do not, who really were believers and those without. Discovered subtle codes among people in their hands, their eyes and their body position. Yet I was the most boring. The worst came when the father invited all to give us a sign of peace. That awful feeling of having to touch a stranger and say without feeling - peace be with you - gave me a terrible revulsion. Men, children, ladies, always had someone around to smile suddenly turned around and I had to give peace . Atrocious. I did not know which side to not know what to say. The worst was when an old man did. Those wrinkled hands, trembling, full of stains resting on my shoulder, touching my arm, my hand sometimes. It was too much for me. In those times I found it impossible to evade this responsibility and I was not at all comfortable that burden, the family pressure, these sentimiendos crashing into my heart. I came to feel that everything in the church I watched, from individuals to the images. Then when the panic filled me came the worst - brothers, let us make the sign of peace -
Once a prisoner of the crisis on Sunday, I was finally blessed. Yes, I'm not exaggerating. I was really touched by an angel. That time was not a strong hand or fingers dirty, much less those bony fingers trembling epidermis stained by the years that I played. A delicate hand was laid upon me, a fine hand, strong, flawless and fresh. Looking up a pair of brown eyes back at me peace literally lost for so long. It was like an exorcism, a divine moment, a miracle. Since that time my pilgrimage to the church was forced by me, only to see it, to feel touched again for such purity. At home everyone was celebrating my sudden devotion. I got up very early. Anxious and sweaty came to church to locate in the meantime Christian sinner. Once located, the next step was to get as close as possible, be as near that time for our peace his arm I can play and receive the message from his lips, his eyes. Do not tell me anything yet. That girl was doing that creates the Lord, in that force that invaded me and shook my body. His only contact me lit. At night, I dreamed of those eyes, that expression and that hand touching. Woke up excited and wet, suffering to count the days - still need to see Sunday - repeated as whipping me with my words - still missing. Then prayed feverishly passionate and sleep to dream again about the girl, until Sunday came again, went to look, I stood next to her and received peace. But lately I've discovered that after she blesses me with the warmth in your contact crowned by the words in the sweetest of voices I can not help getting home and thinking at the moment touch me, imagining that it is she who touches me. A dizzy I assaults
why I let myself go. I rush and then after peace comes, the true and sublime peace. Today, I can not help doing it several times, many more on Sunday after mass. I feel very strange.
Father, you believe that this is wrong, think I'll go to hell?
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