My First Confession

My recollection of my first confession. Keep in mind I was only 7 or 8 at the time.

Me: Hello?

Priest: Are you here to confess your sins, my child?

Me: Oh, there you are. Why are you way over there? I thought I could whisper my way through this. My mom is right outside.

Priest: I can hear you fine.

Me: It’s kind of dark in here. Is that normal?

Priest: You shouldn’t need light to confess your sins.

Me: I have them written down.

Priest leans forward and turns on a small lamp at the top of the confession booth. Several moments of silence ensue.

Priest: Are you here to confess your sins, my child?

Me: We already established that. I’m just making some last minute additions. I pulled this list together last night and it’s already 11 a.m. Apparently the lady who went before me had a lot to get off her chest. She was in here for like an hour.

The priest exhales loudly.

Me: Okay, I’m ready.

Priest: Yes, my child.

Me: Let me just get right to the point here. I was the one who ate the banana bread at my school’s bake sale. I’m sorry. What did they expect me to do? My teacher, Mrs. Winterberry, had me sitting at that stupid table all day talking to old ladies who smelled like burnt coffee and cigarette smoke. I was starving. I wanted to pay for the bread. I really did. But, to be honest, the bread seemed like a fair trade. And it wasn’t even that good. It was dry. I nearly choked the death. It tasted nothing like my mom’s. And what’s the real sin here? Eating the banana bread? I don’t think so. I’m sure if you’re ranking sins, you’d agree that exploiting children would beat stealing.

Silence.

Me: Are you still there?

Priest: Are there more sins you’d like to confess today?

Me: Yes

Priest: Continue.

Me: I punched my younger sister. It was in self defense. I know it and God knows it. But my sister is convincing when she tells her side of the story. Well I’ll tell you the real story. She had been following me all morning like an annoying shadow. Every time I turned around, there she was. Making silly faces or pushing her nose up like a little piggy. I’d had enough. I gave her a warning. I said, “Lisa, leave me the hell alone or I’m going to punch you.” You’d think she’d stop, right? Well she didn’t. I opened the refrigerator door to get some Kool-Aid and when I closed the door, there she was. She scared the crap out of me, Instinctively I extended my arm and landed my fist onto her shoulder. She dropped like a bag of rocks. Of course I felt bad but she had it coming to her. And you don’t see her here today, do you? Interesting, huh? But here I am. This is a classic example of blaming the victim.

Priest: Is there anything else?

Me: Well, how am I doing so far?

Priest: I can handle one more.

Me: Do you have any water in here?

Priest: No, I’m sorry.

Me: I don’t want to complain but if you’re expecting people to confess all of their sins at once, it might be a good idea to have water available, especially if we’re getting one of those communion wafers later. Last time, I had it stuck to the roof of my mouth all the way home.

Priest: I think we’ve had enough for one day.

Me: Oh, okay.

Priest: Your penance is 10 Our Fathers and 20 Hail Marys.

Me: That is completely over the top. Were you even listening? How about I do 8 Our Fathers and 10 Hail Marys.

Priest: Just go.

4 thoughts on “My First Confession

    • I should have named the story “My First and Last Confession” 🙂 In my book, Wanderlush, I included a section on my short stint in Catholic school. I say short stint because I was asked to leave after I brought Rice Christies, my idea for a new breakfast cereal, to show and tell.

      Like

  1. Pingback: First Confession – Part 2 |

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s