General Confession

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I had never told a priest certain sins. I thought sins had a statute of limitations. St. Ignatius did not agree. His spiritual exercises called for a general confession: where I would be expected to confess the sins from my entire life (even if I’d confessed them already). And I didn’t want to chicken out now. I’d written them down and whispered them aloud to myself several times to make sure I could get the words out. 

I opened the creaky confessional door and saw a Hispanic priest behind the latticed screen and breathed easier. Maybe if I said my sins quickly he wouldn’t understand them. 

I said my sins. The priest gasped audibly. Fuck. He understood. 

I was shaking and sweating and got out of the confessional as quick as I could. I walked briskly up the driveway to the dormitory, feeling proud. I’d said my sins. I wouldn’t have to go to hell anymore. 

Now to basque in a feeling of fulfillment, I thought. I walked past the Mary statue and into the locker room. I looked out at the lake and white capped mountains as I’d planned and waited to feel this feeling I knew I’d earned. 

It never came. I tried to force myself to feel something. Had I spent 8 days in absolute silence for no payoff? How was this not hitting harder? I cried but out of frustration. 

What’s the point? God, hear me! Make me know you’re proud. Silence. On to night prayers. 

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