Teresa began her story having felt ready for her Passion since she was young. She disregarded the fears, uncertainty, and warnings of its challenging toll; she was strong, she was capable. She was made for this.
Teresa knew herself, and that's what the wise men of old said, “know thyself.” Teresa knew she was smart, and she knew she was confident. Everything would unfold as it was supposed to. And even if things didn't go as planned — well, that was alright. That was adventure. She could handle the unknown territory between a beginning and a successful end. She could, she knew. Or, at least, that's what she imagined. And that was enough.
Everyone believed in Teresa. Everyone listened when she spoke, and felt she must be as capable as she carried herself. They expected her to partake in the Passion, and come out well, of course. Teresa knew that's what they thought, anyway. If someone could do any great thing, was it not their duty to try?
When Teresa awoke the morning of her ceremony, she smiled with excitement and apprehension. Perhaps the nerves made her move a little quicker than normal, but any fears or uncertainties were greatly overshadowed by intrigue and anticipation. This was her day. The day she had longed for, waited for, hoped for, and knew would define her. The day of her success, her glory, and her chance to prove herself.
She had told herself silly things like, “I would rather fail trying than never try at all,” even though failure was the furthest thing from her mind. Failure was like a unicorn; totally unreal to her senses, a mere fantasy other people entertained. Of course, one always fails at some things — but for Teresa, failure did not exist in her mind in the parts that mattered. A future of hope and prosperity was the only path she could see. And the Passion was going to affirm and prove it.
Teresa checked her reflection in the smooth-surfaced mirror. She had donned her white tunic and pants, and her long blonde hair was brushed and silky. Confidence and excitement radiated from her finely crafted features. She could not imagine how good it would feel to return to this mirror and gaze at her reflection after finishing the Passion. Time moved differently in the Passion, so Teresa really had no idea when she would return; but it did not matter. It was her time.
The sun was bright and hot even this early in the morning, cresting over the tops of trees and buildings and statues as she hurried along the street. Those who knew her as she passed stopped and waved, knowing where she was headed. Teresa smiled, head held high as she walked with confidence to the Southern Cathedral, to the Colosseum.
At the gates of the tall, white-stone building, Teresa simply marveled at the beautiful architecture. The man who built and designed the Four Cathedrals in the city had also gone through a Passion— and returned with a vision for what he was meant to build. Teresa doubted her Passion would lead her to a legacy of architectural genius, but she hungered to know what it could be. Many of her peers (especially those who would never actually surrender to the Passion) longed to be warriors, learning the secret arts of battle. Teresa found that a bit small-minded.
She walked through the gates, which were opened to her, and went inside. She knew the way, even though Teresa had never, of course, been into the room of the Passion. It called to her, like the tugging of a string in her gut — not an emotional feeling, but a physical one. The same feeling she had when she decided to do this.
The doors were wooden, well oiled, and carved in beautiful though confusing designs. Teresa didn’t ponder them much, and pushed inside. A small pool of people gathered there — the privilege of having a family member or close friend partaking in the Passion. Teresa grinned broadly at her parents, her siblings, and her friends. They all smiled back; some nervously, some excitedly. The Passion was no small thing to do; in fact, it was not small at all — the biggest thing her people could accomplish; or fail in.
“Teresa Avila,” the minister said, “come forward.” He gestured to the simple stone archway in the middle of the room.
Teresa obeyed, and glanced to her side at the minister. She could see nothing through the arch — it was simply an arch, only showing the other side of the room.
“Do you long for the Passion?” He asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Will you surrender to the Passion?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Are you faithful to the Way?”
“Yes, I am.”
The minister dipped his finger into a shallow stone bowl of oil, and smeared it on Teresa’s forehead.
“I commit you to your Passion, to the Way. May God have mercy on your soul,” he added, in a quieter tone.
The last comment perhaps unnerved Teresa a bit, but she faced the archway anyways and took a deep breath. Was this really it? Would she finally do it?
“Goodbye, Teresa,” her mother murmured, the only sound in the room or from the small crowd.
“You may step forward,” the minister said, gesturing to the archway. “You will be given everything you need to survive. Don’t lose faith.”
Teresa nodded, and glanced at her family a moment, before stepping up to the archway — she hesitated a moment, felt a bit paralyzed and wondered if she actually knew what she was doing — before her foot moved over the threshold, and she vanished.
