It was a warm afternoon as Father Michael drove along the winding country road after his weekly parish visit. The sun was dipping low, casting golden streaks through the trees when he saw her—Sister Catherine—standing patiently by the roadside near the edge of the convent property. Her habit fluttered slightly in the breeze as she waited, hands clasped politely.
Pulling over, Father Michael rolled down the window. “Good afternoon, Sister. Can I offer you a ride?”
She smiled, serene as always. “Thank you, Father. That would be most kind.”
As she settled into the passenger seat of the old sedan, she adjusted her long habit for comfort. In doing so, she crossed her legs—an innocent gesture—but it caused her robe to shift slightly, revealing just a glimpse of her shapely calf. It wasn’t much, really, but it was enough.
Father Michael, normally the epitome of restraint and decorum, felt his heart skip a beat. Distracted, he briefly lost control of the wheel, swerving slightly before correcting the car’s course. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and focused his eyes squarely on the road.
But temptation, as it often does, lingered.
His thoughts wandered. She sat so calmly beside him, the faint scent of lavender from her skin mixing with the musty scent of old leather seats and incense that clung to his robes. Slowly, almost unconsciously, his hand inched from the steering wheel toward her knee. Just as his fingers brushed the soft fabric of her gown, a calm voice interrupted the silence.
“Father,” said Sister Catherine without looking at him, “remember Psalm 129?”
The words struck like a bell in his mind. Startled, Father Michael snapped his hand back to the wheel, his face flushing red with guilt. “Of course, Sister,” he mumbled, flustered. “Forgive me… The flesh is weak.”
Sister Catherine said nothing more, her gaze fixed serenely on the road ahead.
But as they drove on in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken tension, temptation reared its head again. The scent of lavender. The curve of her lips in the faint light. Against his better judgment, his hand once again drifted, fingertips grazing her leg.
“Father,” she said again, just as calmly as before, “remember Psalm 129?”
This time, Father Michael jerked his hand away as though burned. “I’m so sorry,” he stammered, nearly tripping over his own words. “I… I don’t know what came over me. Forgive me, Sister. Truly. I’ll pray for strength.”
The rest of the drive continued in solemn silence.
When they arrived at the convent gates, Sister Catherine gathered her habit, stepped out of the car, and offered him a polite nod. “Thank you for the ride, Father. May peace be with you.”
“And with you, Sister,” he replied, still red-faced, trying to meet her eyes but failing.
As she disappeared behind the convent doors, Father Michael sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, trying to collect himself. But something tugged at his mind—Psalm 129. What was it she had meant? He couldn’t recall the verse offhand, and curiosity now burned as fiercely as his shame.
He drove back to the church with haste, entered his study, and grabbed his worn Bible from the shelf. Flipping through the pages, he located Psalm 129 and read aloud:
“Go forth and seek; further up, you will find glory.”
For a moment, he blinked. Then slowly, realization—and perhaps a hint of regret—washed over his face.
Moral of the story: Always know your scriptures. Sometimes, the answer is in the details—and you might miss a blessing because you weren’t paying attention.