Bless Me Father...

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been forever since my last confession.” The words echo in the confessional, and I can't help but wonder if they carry beyond these walls. I had been to a good Catholic School run by nuns—Saint Monica on the Fields.

I was happy there. The good sisters were good, not like those horror stories of religious people gone astray. But that’s not why I’m the only person in this 1960s church on a Saturday afternoon—far from it!

I’m here to go to confession! Everything I say is spiritually overheard by everyone, God especially. I can hardly believe I’m here. What on earth possessed me?

 When did the old nineteenth-century St. Patrick's burn down? Dad would tell the story of how the firefighters tried to save it. But it was hopeless. The cork ceiling and lack of sprinklers caused the fire chief to shrug his shoulders and, within the hearing of the tearful crowd that had gathered, exclaim, “Let her burn, boys! There’s no saving her! Back up now. Don’t let it spread to the rectory!”

Burnt up in more ways than one, I’m a survivor, here for another round on that eternal merry-go-round of Roman Catholic sensibility. Or lack thereof.

“Go on…”

Father is getting impatient. Why so? He’s stuck here for an hour, isn’t he? I could tell him so many stories, but that would only earn me a lecture on responsibility or how I’m to blame. It's always me, me, me in a perverse way. But would I be here if that was the whole of it? I must think of something. I'm torn between the truth and the fear of judgment. God or my own. So hopeless!

“I gossip a lot. I always talk about other people, thinking I’m better than anyone else.”

Silence.

“I’m never myself around other people. Always pretending to be something I’m not…”

More silence.

I'm sobbing. Now I’ve done it!

#

To commune with nature, I carry more than myself into a forest—my favorite place—alone. Beautiful sunshine and happy rabbits are chewing and keeping a watchful eye. I sit and dream. My latest self-help book is called How to Be Your Own Best Friend!

Oof! I haunt bookstores and their well-trodden Psych sections. On a first-name basis with Khadija, the friendly “Can I help you with anything?” salesperson who makes me want to buy yet another tome for my sagging bookshelf. So many are unread! Yet I keep collecting in the hopes it might pay off someday.

You wish upon a star, and then there you are! In a church again.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last try.”

Silence.

Where do they get off just listening? He’s sitting there thinking he’s so much better than me! Here I am drowning, doing what would make co-workers crack-wise; only my dead parents would approve of this! Yes, I’m in the moment, aren’t I? This is me saying the most personal things imaginable to a stranger!

“I don’t get this confession stuff! I’m just regressing, going back to being a kid again. Pointless!”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

“Well, that’s it. I’m here for stupid reasons.”

Silence.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” I demand angrily. Boy, the nerve of these priests. So inhuman! I’m going out of my mind, and he’s just sitting there!

Finally, he pipes up. What, after a full minute or more? Something about telling him what I was hoping for! Like I’m a silly child! I storm out, sobbing again!

#

Khadija is always smiling. She looks like someone who has everything going well. She is young, pretty, confident, and joking with her co-workers. I spied her flirting with one good-looking customer. Is the world her oyster? I felt like finding out.

“Khadija, that new series you told me about? Discovering the…”

“Inner Child?” She gets up from arranging history books on a lower shelf—stuff about the First World War. “Follow me!” she sighs, turning to see if I heard her. “They just came in. Volume one is here. I’ll check in the back for volume two.”

Off she goes. I’m left holding this glossy, overproduced paperback, which features Dr. Joyce McHatton and her smiling black-and-white mug on the back. Rock stars at most smirk, pout, or sneer on their albums. Who is happier? I wonder.

Twenty-seven fifty? And that doesn’t include volume Two! I put it back on the shelf.

“You’re not taking it?” she says, suddenly coming up behind me, clutching several books. I turn to face her.

“Do you read this stuff, Khadija?” I blurted out.

“Honestly? Never,” she replied.

I didn’t know what to say after that. She started to look uncomfortable, blinking at me like an aquarium goldfish dreaming of escape.

“Thanks for your help!” I said. Words come to me later. Always later.

#

“I’M NOT HERE TO CONFESS ANYTHING!”

Silence.

“Hear me out before you say anything! I’m fed up with life! I was promised happiness, and nothing worked out! I lived properly, behaved responsibly, and did my bit! Now my parents are dead, I’m alone, and my sister has moved away. My brother wants nothing to do with me! I work a useless dead-end job and have no money or prospects. I can’t stand looking at dating apps! I’m done! There. Satisfied?”

Silence.

“You know you are just like God? He has nothing to say either!” I practically screamed.

By this point, I was trembling so hard I had trouble opening my purse to get a tissue. I was angrier than I had been since he left—that misery-inducing man-child of a boyfriend I used to get so worked up about. Three years ago. I still miss him.

I blew my nose and fumbled for my compact. God, I’m such a mess! Smudgy tears marked my cheeks. Is there a washroom here? I have to get cleaned up!

“Sorry,” I moaned as I put my compact away. “You’re not to blame for my problems.”

“That’s quite alright,” he said. “Could we meet to discuss this further? I’m free next week, say next Tuesday.”

#

It’s funny how life goes. It's sunny all day, and rain is on the horizon. There are so few changes that I’m left wondering what all the fuss is about. I read about so many problems, this celebrity, that one. They crash and burn, go nuts, and live lives nothing like the dreams they promote and live by. And here I am, trying to live their dream that they can’t live out themselves. For what? To win first prize in some live contest?

So, here is where things get interesting. After I became a practicing Catholic again, nothing changed in my life—nothing at all. The clouds opened, and the rain fell. Then, the sun shone like it always did—like it always will.