"Therefore it behooveth hire a full long spoon
That shal ete with a feend."
~Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

I had a lovely conversation with Guin again, in the chapel yesterday evening. We talked a little of Father Eamon--bless her, but I think the girl truly has no idea how much her continued presence means to him, something I tried to remedy a little during our talk. I meant every word when I told her that Father Eamon never smiled before Guin arrived in Midian, but now he does, although such good humors continue to be rare. I can only place the blame for his smiles with Guin. I have seen the two of them together, talking in low voices near the rear of the chapel--sharing memories of their home on the mainland, I've no doubt--and his face transforms when they are together. It is so good for him to have a friend in Guin, and if I'm being overly motherly in my concern for the good father, perhaps I may be forgiven for that.

Our talk soon turned to darker subjects, however, namely an unpleasant interaction I had in the church earlier that afternoon. The story is such: I had only just finished my prayers, when the church doors opened and Wolbert came in. A stranger entered as well, seemingly hot on Wolbert's heels, but at first neither of us paid the stranger any mind. I hurried down to greet Wolbert, delighted as always to see him, for despite his gruffness and world-hardened look, he has always been kind to me, and I must confess I've always enjoyed his company. We had only spoken for a few moments, though, when both of us suddenly realized the stranger was watching us, and what followed after was unpleasant in the extreme.

I'm not entirely sure who the stranger was, although something about him made me deeply uncomfortable. He seemed to take my presence there--or rather, the presence of a nun--as a personal insult, or perhaps a challenge he felt some twisted need to answer. There followed the inevitable challenge to my faith--an argument I am beginning to learn cannot be won, so much as forced into a stalemate, as those who refuse to believe, through blindness both deliberate and unconscious, will not and cannot understand the simplicity of my faith. They always want proof, concrete and easily grasped, and they refuse to entertain the possibility that a life can be lived in joy and hope through a belief and love in something larger than oneself, something that cannot be proved.

After all, if God could be proved, what need would we have of faith?

But it was not our argument that unsettled me so deeply. It was his tone, the fire in his eyes, the unholy seething hatred he seemed to hold for me and my 'kind,' the way he stared at me as if seeing right through me in the most physical, basest sense. The way he licked his lips as he talked, searching my face and the form beneath my habit as if undressing me with his eyes. It made me feel violated, although he never succeeded in touching me--I felt dirty, unclean, every second I was forced through propriety to endure his presence. And I am not ashamed to admit that I was so deeply grateful for Wolbert's presence, nor that I took refuge behind his broad back when the stranger's anger and continued force of personality began to frighten me in earnest.

Wolbert, God bless him, rose admirably to the occasion, making it clear by word and action that he had every intention of protecting me. And not long after that, the church mice scurried in with another young friend. They seemed to sense that something was amiss, and were quick to surround the situation--which touched me deeply. They may be small, but their hearts and courage are simply astonishing. It was a perfect distraction as well, and I took the opportunity to gather them close, all three of them, and draw them with me down the aisle and closer to the relative safety of the altar. The stranger took leave soon after, I can only hope because he realized himself outnumbered. And my mice... ohh, our dear little mice--assured me they would watch and ward against the stranger's return.

I met another man shortly thereafter, a gentleman named Aldous Dagger, and we briefly discussed the stranger as well. He is a regular parishioner, and I have seen him often at the church, so his watchfulness will be welcome. It is less for myself that I fear, in truth, but for the little ones who seek sanctuary here. As Father Eamon says, the church is to be a place of peace, a place where this city's lost and forgotten can find shelter and warmth and hope. Strangers such as that man are not welcome here.

Guin, of course, thought I should have told Father Eamon about the man, and all that had happened, but I'm not so sure. Father Eamon has so much to worry about already, and he did try to get me to return to the mainland. I don't want to worry him further, nor give him yet another reason to urge me into leaving. Especially since we both know I never will--not for that reason, at any rate. I am needed here, and if I might be permitted a moment's vanity, I think Father Eamon needs me as well. Goodness knows I need him, for a friendly ear, if nothing else.

God answers all prayers. He must. Everyone at the Mother House said I was insane for coming to Midian, and the priests worry about me constantly, but since coming here I have found far more kindness that hate. I can only believe that every one of my would-be protectors has been sent by the Lord, to watch over me and keep me safe, not for my own sake, but that I might continue to do God's work in this despairing city. Dear Lord, watch over my new friends, Gin and Guin, Father Eamon and Father Zelenski, Wolbert and Aldous and my dear little mice. Keep them safe, keep them whole, and let our church continued to grow as a refuge in your Holy Name.