Yesterday the former pastor of my church was arrested on ten misdemeanors involving sexual abuse. When the charges were brought against him almost a year ago, I was shocked. He has been a dear friend since I met him five years ago, and I cannot believe that that he would do the things that people are saying he did. How could someone who has done such good also do such evil? I guess it’s up to the judicial process now to determine whether the accusations are true or not.

For the last year I’ve prayed, not knowing how any of this would turn out. There was a looming fear that the accusation could be true. Then yesterday morning, he was arrested. The local news has been buzzing with the the contradiction between the positive impact of the priesthood and the accusations against him.

I don’t know whether or not he is innocent or guilty. Speculating on his innocence or guilt is foolish because I don’t know what happened. The truth is that nobody knows right now. All anyone knows is rumor or hearsay. Trying to collect evidence for either case in my head only makes me nervous and upset. Instead, I pray for the truth, for Monsignor Dale, and for the people who’ve brought accusations against him.

Last night I went to Mass to pray for the whole situation. It was awkward because the parish was filled with people with so many emotions: anger, frustration, disbelief, sadness. I stood there in the middle of everyone–without any emotion at all. My mind was clear and my heart was at peace. I couldn’t feel what others felt. I went to show my support, to pray, and because I didn’t know what else to do.

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I finished the night by hanging Christmas lights on my house. It’s always scary to pop my head up into the dark attic. You never know if there was a crazy gorilla man standing in the corner. I grabbed the big rubber container and closed the hatch before the crazy man could kill me.

There’s something comforting and magical about plugging in a string of Christmas lights and watching the dark green box ignite into a soft glow. It’s just as magical today as it was when I was a kid helping Dad decorate our home in North Carolina. But tonight I’d be hanging these lights by myself.

It was cold enough outside to wear my fleece jacket. This is a rare occasion in Arizona. To further capture the moment, I ran inside and put on some Christmas MP3s and parked my speakers in the window. I wish my neighbors were outside celebrating the moment too, but I was just me, Alvin, and the Chipmunks.

Hanging Christmas lights is tedious and humbling ordeal. You have to climb the ladder, staple the string of lights, and then step down the ladder. You move the ladder three feet forward, and you do it all over again. I was feeling good about my progress until the string went dark, probably because of a loose bulb. After a few shakes, it’s best to just take it down and start over with a new string of lights.

In the monotony of hanging the lights, I tried to sort out the insanity of the day. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in Monsignor Dale’s position. While I am continuing an American homeowner’s tradition, he’s being humiliated in front of the world. Regardless of what he did or did not do in the past, today is an awful day for him–for anyone in that position.

It was getting late, so I dragged the rubber box of Christmas lights into the garage and called it a day. I washed my hands and went to sleep.