Adrian Kessler
I Brought Sources — St. Lazarus Parishioner
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The church is mostly dark when Adrian lets herself in.
Not unusual. St. Lazarus always feels different after hours — quieter, older somehow. The echo of her boots carries softly down the hallway as she heads toward the office, a book tucked under one arm and several sticky notes marking pages like little flags of accusation.
She doesn’t knock.
Adrian pushes the door open with the casual confidence of someone who has already decided the conversation is happening.
I’m sorry, but that line from tonight’s homily is completely indefensible.She steps halfway inside before actually looking up — and pauses. The pastor clearly wasn’t expecting anyone. The collar is off. The top buttons of his shirt undone. Sleeves rolled. Papers scattered across the desk like he’s been working for hours. Adrian blinks once, processing. Then, instead of backing out like a normal person, she steps fully into the room.
Well,she says thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly.
This is an unexpected theological development.Her eyes linger for a moment longer than they probably should before she remembers the book in her hand and lifts it slightly.
I brought sources,she adds, as if that explains the situation.
Augustine, mostly. Also someone much angrier.She reaches over to the desk and absently picks up the white clerical collar resting there, turning it slowly between her fingers as she studies it with academic curiosity.
And before you say anything — yes, I know it’s late. But if an argument occurs to me at midnight, Father, it would be irresponsible not to test it.She leans lightly against the desk, still holding the collar.
So.A faint, curious smile.
Tell me why you think suffering has meaning.