My Confession

We had to go twice a year starting in third grade: once during Advent and again during Lent. Mrs. Reinkemeyer, our teacher, would walk us single file from the school building next door to the old stone church for confession. We sat in the pews some distance from each other, so we would spend time in prayer and not talking. I spent my time deciding which sins I had likely committed since my last confession. I didn’t keep an inventory of what I did wrong. Who does that? I also didn’t want to confess so many sins or share something so bad that I might get in trouble. I never lied during confession, but I also didn’t feel compelled to be 100% forthcoming, either. I knew right from wrong, but I also knew I could get in trouble if I did something wrong. I didn’t feel comfortable telling a priest, a considerable authority figure, my sins. I believed I would get in trouble or worse if I told him everything I’d done wrong.

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When the student in line ahead of me returned to their pew, I stood up and headed towards the room on the right side of the altar. The hard stone floor of the church changed to a creaking wood floor. I tip-toed to the chair across from our priest, afraid to make noise.

Fr. Pete, our priest, did confessions for the 70-something students face-to-face, making an already intimidating situation more so.

I sat in the wooden chair, breathless from tip-toeing and nervousness, and said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was 4 months ago. Since then, I have…”

This is where I confessed my carefully chosen sins. It was always something I probably did, but nothing terrible. I almost always confessed to a small lie or two.

I told my mom I fed the cats when I hadn’t.

I didn’t do the dishes when my mom asked.

I told a white lie to a classmate.

Fr. Pete would listen and then hold a long silence after I finished speaking as if he was waiting for me to say more. I never did. Eventually, he would talk to me about why it’s essential to tell the truth or listen to my mom and assign me my penance. Usually, this was 3 Hail Marys or a couple of Our Fathers. He would then pray over me, absolve me of my sins, and shake my hand before I rushed out of the room, again on tip-toe.

I felt a great relief as I kneeled in my pew and said my assigned prayers quickly in my head. I had survived another confession. It would be several more months before I had to do it again. Eventually, I graduated from Catholic school and stopped going to confession, but I never forgot the dread of the confessional.