“so… do i just talk about stuff? like, my day, or something?” :)) for griff
his lips tilt upwards into a smile-- easy, soft, warm--, eyes focused on the crucifix behind the altar before them. a threat to those who sin, a reminder to those who question faith, and a promise to the devout of a life to come. he had told her that he was claustrophobic when her discomfort in the confessional booth was becoming obvious. he prefers sitting in the pews, anyway. he prefers feeling the warmth of the wood that holds his flock every mass. "your day," he starts, eyes sliding over to her, "or your feelings, or your life, or your favorite animal, or anything, really. it's about what you want to say to me." pushing doesn't work, he's learned that, he's lived that. pushing on a locked door doesn't open it, only finding the key does that. "i'm here to listen and guide and comfort. not to judge or scold or anything like that." god was comfort, god was love, god was good. father monroe represents that, or at least tries to. "or we can just sit here. something about just sitting with someone who cares makes things better." and care he did, for every soul that wandered their ways into those doors, every body that found itself encompassed by the warmth of the church. "my schedule is open all day." no mass, no wedding, no funeral, no christening. a quiet day in his life.
@hidefire
