Confessing Ain’t Easy
Winner of the San Francisco Writers Conference 2023 contest, Adult Non-Fiction category.
by ML Barrs
Maybe it was something about attending Mass three times in as many days. That’s a lot of religion for someone who’s not used to it. This Mass drew so many worshippers they almost filled the convention hall. The altar was on a dais and there were candles, incense, and priests in brocaded vestments, but the cavernous space was seriously lacking in stained glass and statues of saints. It felt more like an event than a sacrament.
Mom came up the bleacher steps after receiving communion, looking serene in her long flowery dress and light sweater. She knelt down in front of her seat. No padded risers here. It felt wrong to sit while she knelt, so I got on my knees next to her. When we sat back up she held my hand until the priest said the last blessing and sent us on our way.
Day three of the Catholic Celebration of Family, put on by the Eternal Word Television Network in Birmingham, Alabama. I was about at my fill. After mass Mom tugged me back toward a crowded room packed with booths filled with icons and prayer cards and books. The faint aroma of incense floated amid the bouquet of sweat, perfume, and distinctive smell of cigarette smokers.
Maybe I simply didn’t want to look at any more rosaries and statues. We’d already spent hours doing that. I stopped and pointed. “I think I’ll do that instead.” I might have been even more surprised than she was when I headed toward the arrowed sign that said ‘confession.’
The line stretched down the hall, so I had plenty of time to question what I was doing, certain that people could tell I didn’t belong with them. There were a few young people, but most looked older than my fifty-plus years. Some held rosaries and read missals. I tried to remember the words I’d learned for my First Confession. I only got as far as, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…”
The line moved so slowly I almost jumped out of it a few times, but it would get moving again just then so I stayed. I made lists in my mind of what I would confess. This wasn’t like when I was a kid and most of my sins had to do with fighting with my brothers or complaining about chores. Now there was a lot more ground to cover. When I finally turned the corner I saw people formed two lines to go into two separate rooms. When I was up next whoever was in that room must have done a lot wrong because three people went in and out of the other room while I waited.
When a woman finally came out a man rushed out right after her. He had on a priest’s white collar and black clothes and looked flustered as he said, “Go on in. I’ll be right back.” It was kind of funny. It must be tough, needing to use the restroom while listening to people beg forgiveness for their misdeeds.
I entered the small meeting room, with a chair set up next to a screen. Good. My knees still hurt from kneeling next to Mom. The priest came back, and I got a good look at him. I’d never before seen a priest who heard my confession. He was a regular-looking guy with curly grayish-brown hair, about my age or a little younger. He went around the screen, opened up the little confessional window, and thanked me for waiting.
I said, “No problem,” then added, “I’m not sure whether this is the right time or place, because it’s been 38 years since my last confession.”
He actually chuckled. “Oh, this is definitely the right time and the right place.”
Oh good, he has a sense of humor. “I don’t remember the words.”
“The words aren’t what’s important,” he said. “What’s important is that you’re here now. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“It’s been so long I don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s okay. Do you remember the Ten Commandments?”
“Most of them, I think.”
"We can start there." There was smile in his voice. “I can help if you don’t remember them all.”
“Ok, I’ll just kind of go down the list.” I immediately began re-sorting and editing my mental catalog of wrongdoings, discarding some as relatively insignificant, trying to remember if any of the commandments even applied to others.
“We can start with the big one. I haven’t killed anyone.”