Dear Wigleaf,

I'm married to a priest. There—I told you. I wasn't sure I should, because these days priests aren't exactly everyone's favorite people, often for good reason. My husband has to wear a clergy collar, which makes him look Catholic, which is probably why he got booed at a car wash the day after Dobbs.

Sometimes I forget he looks Catholic. Once, I kissed him at a Starbucks in Detroit and a lady's mouth hung open, like I'd just drop-kicked a litter of puppies. Oops.

And that's what it's like to be married to a priest. There's an oops around every corner, and also, a punchline. The priest walks into a bar. The priest leaves a gallon jug of holy water on your kitchen table. The priest is standing in your bedroom in his boxers.

People's hills and valleys wallpaper your world. Often, when the phone rings, it's because someone's had a life-altering day. Nobody calls their priest when things are ordinary.

I like sitting in the church alone, after all the people have gone but the incense lingers. Maybe there's been a wedding, or a baptism, or a funeral. Maybe an ordinary liturgy, if such a thing is possible. Whatever holy rite's just been enacted, I'm going home with the guy who did it.

It is never, ever boring.

Love,

-E.