Only a few days to get through, but that was exhausting enough: waiting, calling good morning on the way out and waiting for a response, texting at every opportunity through the day, fumbling with the key in haste to open the door whenever she returned home.
“Hi, Sam!”
That minute of silence, Lucy resisting the urge to charge up the stairs, instead walking up them normally as though her mind were not churning through the full list of possibilities. “Sam?”
“Oh, hi Lucy.” Sam was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing much.” She sat up.
“You should find something to do.”
“I’m fine.”
No. No you are not. “I’m getting changed. Come downstairs.”
“Okay.”
It was Thursday evening, tomorrow's meeting hanging over them. For Lucy, a move at last, perhaps a step towards Sam getting some actual help... or , of course, a trigger for another crisis. She put on a film so they could stay up late, and spend most of the night half awake, listening desperately to any movement from the next room. She’d confiscated all medications and sharps, put them in a box in her room, but who knew what Sam might come up with.
There was relief in getting up the next morning, hearing Samantha respond to her wake-up call. Lucy got out the breakfast things, noticing ruefully how much faster food disappeared with two people eating it.
“Okay,” she said, when Sam was downstairs and they were both eating breakfast. “So today’s my day off, and we’re not spending it in the house. So where shall we go instead?”
Sam shrugged. “Wherever.”
“Town or country?”
“Dunno.”
“Choose.”
“Country?”
“Cool. We’ll take a picnic. And we’ll come back here before Bishopthorpe, so don’t worry about that.”
“Okay.”
Lucy sighed and went to wash up. Was it nice having company? Did Sam even count as company? It was more like work, except full time, and without the supports of her actual job.
They climbed a hill and found a bench, spreading plastic bags out before sitting down, Yorkshire as wet as ever. It wasn’t really the weather for a picnic, though it was at least just about warm enough to get away with not wearing gloves.
“So, have you thought about your meeting?”
Sam shrugged. “Obviously.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“I dunno. That I’m fine? That I won’t do it again?”
“Yeah, you’re not fine though.”
Sam kicked the ground. “She’s an archbishop, she doesn’t care about me being stupid.”
“She cares about you.”
“She just doesn’t want me to do anything else dramatic.”
“She wants to help you.”
“Sure.”
“She does.”
“I can’t help me, she can’t. Give up.”
“You don’t want things to get better?”
“It’s not going to happen.”
Not with that attitude. “Go and be honest with her. You might be surprised.”
“I’d rather move on.”
Says the person still living in Lucy’s house with no indication of going anywhere.
“I’m going to keep praying for you, Sam, because I have no idea what else I can do. I just hope Ruth can help you. And that you’ll actually let her.”
“Aren’t there other people more important? Homeless kids, stuff like that, people who actually deserve help. She’s taking time out of dealing with all that to give me another lecture?”
“She’s not going to give you a lecture, it’s not like last time. We want to help you.”
“Why did you stop me? It’d have saved so much time and trouble, you could just have been a bit sad and then moved on.”
“Stop it, Sam. Just stop it. Can’t you accept that someone might actually care about you?”
“I just don’t think you should waste your time.”
Well, it wasn’t the first time they’d had a conversation like that this week. Good luck Ruth, thought Lucy, as she drove them home and went upstairs to change. Clericals, because she was going to Bishopthorpe, even if only as Sam’s friend.
When they made it, Lucy sat in the car for a minute before getting out and walking round to Sam’s door.
“Okay then. Let’s get in there.”
Samantha got out of the car slowly, followed a couple of steps behind to stop at the foot of the imposing staircase. Lucy took her arm to steer her up.
“Come on, Sam. I’m sticking right by you, for as long as you want me to.”
Ruth had bags under her eyes, and greeted them with a tired but gracious welcome, settling them both before she sank into her own chair. Lucy had shouted at her, the last time they'd met, and half wanted to apologise, but couldn't in front of Sam. And there was something frozen about Sam as she sat in silence, eyes down. Lucy sat as close to her as she could and tried to ignore the tension which hung in the air between the three of them, tried to see Ruth as the bishop she'd known before all of this started. The bishop who’d come to check in on her when her first curacy was imploding, and had immediately stepped in to sort it out, and who’d visited her in hospital while she was recovering from the burst appendix which had delayed her priesting the second time. The kind, patient Ruth, apparently so different from the one Sam knew. What was Ruth thinking, as she sat down across from them and twisted the ring on her finger? Lucy tried not to fidget, not to stare.
“Samantha, Lucy, I’m glad you could come. Now first of all, Samantha, do you want Lucy to be here? She will take no offence if you don’t.”
Lucy nodded to show she agreed with Ruth’s words, but Sam nodded too. “I’d like her, yeah.”
“That’s fine. If at any point you wish her to leave so we can talk in private, just say. Or if you want to take a break, or call it a day; I know you're still recuperating. So, how are you feeling now?”
Sam shrugged. “Alive.”
Ruth hesitated, an uncertainty which Lucy hadn’t seen in her before, but it only took a few seconds for her to recollect herself. She sat up slightly straighter in her chair, folding her hands together.
“It seems evident to me that in our last meeting, I failed in my anger to really see the impact of my words and your emotional state, and we also failed to follow up properly, for which I am very sorry. This is something I hope to - as far as possible - address now, though I know there is nothing I can do to make up for the hurt my words and actions have caused you. I know that many people will have told you that suicide is not the answer, but I’m going to reiterate it anyway. There is no point at which your life is no longer worth living, and nobody wishes to make you feel as though it is, however I can understand the desperation which lead to your decision. It must be an incredibly difficult thing to face, to lose not just job and livelihood but vocation, and to feel unwelcome in the Church which has been so important to you. Lucy said that you had stopped attending services, and Janice informed me that you refused her offers of a hospital communion…”
Sam nodded.
“Can you tell me why you’re reluctant to return?”
She shrugged, but Ruth waited, until Sam finally shrugged again. “It’s not for me, any more.”
“Do you want to go?”
Another shrug.
“Do you miss it? Do you miss receiving Holy Communion?”
A tiny, almost imperceptible nod, and then tears.
And Ruth was leaning forwards towards her. “Why not go?”
Only confusion, and tears. You know full well, thought Lucy. But did Sam?
"I... don't belong. I don't deserve it. You told me to... worry about my own worthiness, so I..." Sam’s voice cracked, and she ducked her head.
Ruth gave her a minute before responding. "That's what you heard, in my words?"
Sam shrugged, not looking up.
"That's not what I meant. I'm so sorry I implied that, that's not my belief at all. Christ died not for the righteous but for sinners. His table is open to you, so long as you want to receive him. Or want to want." Ruth glanced at Lucy for a moment. "When we say that communion is for the worthy, we deceive ourselves, or else we can never go. This is not a reward, but a gift, offered to you to heal you. You know the prayer of humble access: ‘Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed’. In the Eucharist, we make the memorial of Christ’s death and resurrection, made to save us from sin, medicine for the soul. And someone, caught in sin, who longs to receive that salvation… it is for them.”
“But St Paul…”
Sam ducked her head again nervously, falling silent, and though Ruth gave her time she didn't finish the sentence.
“St Paul spoke against those who treated it with irreverence, who gorged themselves and left others hungry. Remember the pharisee and the tax collector, who went to pray, and how it was the sinner who went away justified? And the words of the Eucharistic prayer- drink this, all of you; this is my blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. When I told you to worry about your own worthiness, I did not mean to cut you off from the Communion table. You are welcome. You are not worthy, but you are welcome.”
Sam looked at the floor, picking at her cuff, her mouth forming words she didn’t quite voice. There was a long silence.
“I’m told,” Ruth went on in the end, “that after you took the drugs, you told Lucy that you were going to hell. First I’ll say that God will not condemn someone for being defeated by desperation and misery, in too much pain to know what they were doing, but I’m going to guess that it wasn't just that, and you took my words at our last meeting to heart.”
Samantha continued to look at the floor. “You were right. You don’t have to take it back to save my feelings, I know it’s true. I betrayed God, you said.”
Lucy saw Ruth’s slight intake of breath, before she shook her head. “I’m not taking anything back. I just don't think it means what you think it means.” Her fingers strayed back to the ring on her finger. “Remember what we say? God is love. Love does not drive out children when they stray. Samantha, this is what I failed to say to you at the end of our last meeting. When you have recognised and repent of your sins, then return to God. You are always welcome. Yes, you are a sinner, and you know it and regret it. It is the most painful thing, the knowledge of our separation from God. It’s so easy to imagine ourselves driven away, not to see a father’s arms wide open, longing for our return, like the Prodigal Son. Not a return in denial, believing ourselves to be good and worthy, but a return with full confession, so that the welcome is not for some false, sanitised version of ourselves but for our real selves, presenting our brokenness so that we can be healed."
Ruth paused, a long pause, before she spoke again. “Samantha, I want to help you, to help you come back and find those open arms. Do you want to return?”
Sam wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Of course I want it.” She shrugged. “It all sounds great. And I know all of this, really, I guess, I just… I don’t know if I believe it any more. I… I’ve tried praying. It just hurts, and I don't think I'm strong enough.”
Ruth nodded sympathetically.
“I tried confessing, and saying sorry, and asking God to help, asking Him to make it hurt less. But nothing changed.”
“And broken oaths cannot be unbroken, nor can you promise to try again because you are no longer in active ministry.”
“No.” The word choked off into a sob.
“Samantha.” Ruth said the name and then waited for Sam to look up. “Don’t give up.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“It was one day. One stupid day. Stupid and wrong, and I ruined everything.”
“Samantha, listen to me. Yes, it was stupid. Something you clearly profoundly regret – and I think - hope - not just for the way in which it is making you feel. But while you have lost a lot, you have not lost everything. God has a habit of causing good to spring from the most unlikely places.”
“He already did, that’s what I ruined.”
“There isn’t a one-per-person rule.”
“I guess, but…” She gave up and shrugged. "Anyway, I can't do it."
“Have you ever received the Sacrament of Reconciliation?”
Sam glanced up for a moment, then looked down again and shook her head. “I mean, I’ve read about it.”
“I think it might be helpful to you. It’s a way in which a priest might help someone struggling to recognise God’s forgiveness, as you are. I will never put any pressure on anyone to do it – it can be uncomfortable, obviously, but also profoundly moving and healing. Based on what you have just said, about the struggles you're going through, I think it might really benefit you. I want you to hear the words of absolution and know them to be true, and can provide you with names of a few suitable confessors if that would be helpful."
“I…” Samantha swallowed, fidgeted in a long silence. “I have to talk to someone else? I thought...” She glanced up, checking Ruth's facial expression. “I thought... you could. You know everything already.”
Ruth shook her head. “Regardless of anything else, I am not permitted to hear the confession of a priest in their own diocese, I'm afraid.”
“You could, I'm not a priest anymore.”
Ruth met Lucy's eyes for a second, looking away before Lucy could figure out her emotions. “Yes, you are. I ordained you myself, and that is irreversible. I discussed this with you before ordination.”
"I know, but at the same time I'm not really."
"Curacy and priesthood are not the same, Samantha. You resigned your office, not your orders, and are still as much a priest as I am."
"Hmm." Sam was looking down again, eyes on the floor. Showing nothing, offering nothing, as always. Lucy could only sit and watch. Did Ruth really have to correct Samantha now, when she was so fragile? But what else could she do? Lucy could hardly claim she'd do better herself.
Ruth found a piece of paper and passed it across. "Contact details. Probably the place that would be easiest for you to go is the Order of the Holy Paraclete in Whitby, there's also the cathedral but you have known the clergy there as colleagues and might find it awkward. Or Tim, Lucy's training incumbent, is a very wise and kind priest, if you don’t feel he is too close to home. I don't really need to clarify that Lucy is not an appropriate option." She nodded to Lucy. "It's not a job for a curate, except in extremis. You can attend a training course when you finish your curacy."
Lucy tried to hide her reaction. Was this the ministry to which she was ordained? To reconcile God’s people, to make known God’s love… she did it in the general absolution, she supposed, but the responsibility here felt frightening.
"Anyway," Ruth went on, "it's not an order, it's your choice. But it is a strong recommendation, and I would like you to consider it seriously. As a matter of fact, there's something else you might get from a visit to Whitby: they are willing to welcome you to stay, for perhaps weeks or months, while you find your feet again, if you would like to. Hospitality is part of their rule of life, and they would only ask you to join in the life of the convent while you're there - chores, prayer, and the like. You could visit and find out if this is something you'd like to try. And finally, I have some influence in making you a counselling referral, if that would help. I could put my name to it, and they'll send you forms for the personal details. Would that help?"
Sam shrugged. "I guess. The hospital tried to sort something but..." She shrugged again. "Something about my insurance."
"I will do that, then - I have ties with a few charitable organisations, and while they have some backlogs after last year, the waiting list shouldn't be too long. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Another shrug in reply. "No. Thanks."
"I will pray for you, at least. Especially that you find the forgiveness you need. It's there, the hard bit is believing."
"Yeah. Thanks."
There was a short silence, which became long, not companionable but awkward. Lucy looked at the floor, avoided both Ruth and Sam's eyes, waiting for one of them to break it.
It was Ruth who did, in the end. "Alright. Would you like to go now, to reflect and process in your own time? I know you have a lot you're re-evaluating, and that's hard."
"Okay."
"There's nothing else I can help with, at all? Spiritually, theologically, or practically?"
Sam shrugged. "No."
There was another brief silence, where the words had run out, Ruth twisting the ring on her finger again. It felt like a short meeting, given all that had happened, but what else could they say? Besides, Samantha was barely out of hospital, and still recuperating, and they'd had that walk this morning as well.
Ruth finally broke it, rising to her feet slowly. "I would like to pray for you before you go. May I lay a hand on your shoulder?"
"Okay." Sam reached a tentative hand towards Lucy, who took it and felt Sam's grip tighten as Ruth touched her. Lucy squeezed her hand in return.
"Father, be with Samantha now in this difficult time. Enfold her in your love, and surround her with your mercy. Grant her true repentance and humility, that she may know more truly your forgiveness, and give her strength to persist through the challenges ahead. Samantha, may God bless you, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit." With her thumb, Ruth made the sign of the cross on Sam's brow. "Remember your baptism, eternal and irrevocable. You are God's child forever. Amen."
"Amen." Tears glimmered in Sam's eyes yet again, and then they stood and Ruth went to the door to hold it for them.
"Thank you for coming. Samantha, I am here if you wish to talk, and otherwise please do return to the Eucharist and consider acting on the rest of what I've said today, I do believe it will help you. And Lucy..." Ruth raised her hand, bestowed a short blessing, and then spoke softly to her. "Thank you for all you're doing. Call me, if I can help. And travel safely. Goodbye."
They drove most of the way home in silence, and only once they had pulled into the drive did Sam finally speak.
"I should probably do it before I lose my nerve."
"Like, call the priory?" Don't act too enthusiastic, Lucy told herself. Don't let Sam feel unwelcome again.
Sam shrugged. "I guess."
"Sounds like a good idea."
"Yeah." Sam picked at her jeans. "What's Tim like?"
"Tim? He's lovely. He teases me all the time and is, like, really really Anglo-Catholic, but he's nice. Never gets cross or anything, and you can trust him. He'll make fun of me for stuff I say but never too much, and if it's really serious he doesn't. Like I talked to him a lot about... having you here, helping you. He gave some good advice and just... helped me with... the challenges. Not that I don't like having you here but, you know..."
"I'm hard work." Sam kept her eyes down.
"It's just a tricky situation."
"It's okay, I'm going to this priory place."
"I hope it's good."
Sam set a hand on the handle of the car door then paused. "Tim knows... everything, doesn't he?"
"Um... he knows the main details. I've not told him, like, private stuff, just the general picture. Only 'cause I wanted his advice, he wouldn't tell anyone."
"It's fine, I get it."
"Sorry. I should have asked you."
"Nah, it's good. I wish I'd had a TI like that."
"He's really good."
"Not like..." Sam cut herself off. "Would you ask if he'd talk to me? Next time you see him? Like... Archbishop Ruth suggested."
Should she make Sam do it herself? She was just making the initial contact, to make it easier for Sam. "Sure. I'll text him now, even."
"It's your day off"
"It's fine, you're not work."
"You don't get paid for dealing with me, you mean." A short, pained laugh. "I can't change my mind now."
"I mean you could if you..." Lucy stopped herself. "Let's go inside and you can call that priory. And then we can have dinner."
"Sounds good. And then I can pack. You'll have your house back soon."
"I'll drive you there and look round with you. It'll be great."
"Thanks." Sam shrugged. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I guess I owe it to you to try."
"I just want you to be okay. That's what we all want."
Sam shrugged again. "I'll go call them now. And start packing."
"Alright. And then come help me with dinner?"
"Yeah, okay."