A white dress spreads open in a twirl, absorbing the blue lights of the DJ table that strobe across the room. My cousin, Macy, spins beneath the hand of her new husband. Behind them, a row of little girls line the dance floor, slack-jawed at the sight.
            I turn to my sister. “What’s so hypnotizing? The lights?”
            She rolls her eyes. “No! They think Macy is a princess.”
            I am immediately taken back to my sister’s own princess childhood: rhinestone tiaras, ballet outfits, Disney costumes and regal Barbie mansions, replete with winding staircases.
            The memories cause me to shudder.
            As an older brother, I invaded the toy castles. I wrecked the carriages. I belittled Barbie and ballet. I attacked a little princess’ heart. All to impress my friends.
            I give thanks to God that my mom and dad chose to protect the princess and punish, that is to say, teach, Sir Destruct-a-lot.
           My sister, preparing for her own upcoming wedding, is now adorned with true beauty, a regal beauty, both inside and out.
            As a priest, God has given me a second chance.
            In office chairs and on confessional kneelers, broken temples of God, seduced and raided by the world and by men, toss their broken crowns at my feet. Mysteriously mingled with my own words, the tidings of Truth, like healing hands, gently lift chins to look at eyes smeared with mascara tears, and wash them clean.
            Like a needle, deft in the hands of the Master Weaver, mini-skirts morph into bridal gowns that swirl with sacramental grace, grafting wounded souls to the heart of God.
            I am left slack-jawed, wondering who exactly is the one being healed.

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