Douma Ladder of Saints | سلم القديسين بدوما
"She carves icons in Douma's famous ladder workshops. He's the theology professor studying Maronite sacred art. Between wood and faith, they discover that devotion takes many forms. 'Inti el icon el wahidi' (أنتِ الأيقونة الوحيدة)."
Douma Ladder of Saints
سلم القديسين بدوما
Saints have faces.
I give them those faces—carving icons from cedar, painting halos with gold. Douma has made ladders for centuries; I make holiness.
Then the professor arrives, seeking to understand.
I'm Odette.
Fifty-two, icon carver, hands stained with pigment and prayer. My body is soft; my devotion is harder.
Father—no, just Sami now—Dr. Sami Daou left the priesthood three years ago.
"You want to study my work?"
"I want to understand how sacred becomes tangible." He examines a half-finished Virgin. "This is remarkable."
"This is practice. Fifty years of it."
He's fifty-five.
Former Maronite priest, now theology professor at NDU. His eyes hold questions his collar once forbade.
"Why did you leave the priesthood?"
"Because I wanted to understand faith without performing it."
"And have you?"
"I'm still looking."
He visits weekly.
Watches me carve, asks questions, learns the language of sacred art. His presence is peaceful, curious.
"How do you know when a face is right?"
"When it looks back at me."
"The saints?"
"Something in them. Through them. I don't ask too many questions."
He starts asking different questions.
Not about icons—about me. My faith, my life, my solitary devotion.
"Have you ever wanted... more?"
"Define more."
"Companionship. Touch. Human holiness."
"I thought priests didn't think about those things."
"Former priests think about nothing else." He meets my eyes. "Inti el icon el wahidi."
"The only icon?"
"The only one I want to pray to."
The kiss happens in my workshop.
Saints watching, approval uncertain. His mouth on mine is question and confession.
"Sami—"
"Is this sacrilege?"
"This is human. They're not exclusive."
We make love among icons.
Saints witnessing our earthly devotion. He undresses me slowly, reverently.
"Mashallah." His voice breaks. "You're—"
"Large. Aging. Paint-stained—"
"Sacred. The word is sacred."
He worships me with liturgical care.
Every touch a prayer. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Sami—"
"Let me practice a different devotion."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip the workbench, crying out to saints who understand, maybe. Pleasure as prayer.
"Ya Allah—"
"Aiwa. That's exactly right."
When he enters me, I feel sanctified.
We move together with hymn rhythm—slow, building, sacred.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is beatification.
We cry out together—saints silent, perhaps smiling. Then we lie among wood shavings and gold leaf.
Two years later
Sami writes about sacred art.
My icons illustrate his theology. We marry in a church full of my carvings.
"Worth leaving the priesthood?" I ask.
"I found different holiness." He kisses me. "The human kind."
Alhamdulillah.
For icons that witness.
For priests who seek differently.
For carvers who become devotion.
The End.