So, You Went to Confession and Now Feel Worse?

Did the Priest Misunderstand You?

Did you mumble, fumble, and stumble, as you always seem to do in confession? After all, you don’t really know what you’re doing, do you now?

Raised Protestant and infused with a good dose of stiff-upper-lip Calvinism, confession was the most challenging part of Catholicism to come to grips with.

I remember very little about my year in RCIA. I also had other issues to deal with, like an ailing marriage. And that was 28 years ago.

The memory that ended up in the confessional yesterday, came out of nowhere. It was a feral cat leaping on a tiny field mouse. That cat is quite something. Missing a bit of tail and half of one ear. Tufts of fur missing here and there. Multicolored speaks of an interesting ancestry.

It had been stalking that little field mouse, that would be me, for quite a while. In restless dreams, whiskers twitching, the mouse that is, I’d wake with my hands clenched in fists so tight I could not uncurl them. The left hand gave first, and I used it to slowly force back the fingers on my right hand.

What in heavens name was going on!

I stilled my mind, closed my eyes, and waited. The cat appeared, smirking, and so did the memory.

It’s been 50 years.

I was so young, and yes, somewhat naïve. I loved my job, loved what I did. Adored my manager but did not have a warm fuzzy feeling towards the second in command. Something about the man gave me the creeps. I was super polite and meticulous in my dealings with him, but I did not care for the man, and I knew it was mutual.

Enter The Trap

It is a trap as old as the hills. Set by men.

Only now, 50 years later, do I realize it was a trap.

Back then, at work, doors suddenly closed everywhere. A promotion was turned down. An application was rejected because the position was only open to men. Smiles as I walked past the packed coffee room.

The final insult came when I was removed from being a tour leader taking a group into Africa. That perk had been given to someone else.

I didn’t understand and did not relate it to what I’d considered an annoying incident and had forgotten.

Silly me.

I left that company, went elsewhere, and happily took all my clients with me. Sometimes revenge is sweet and justified.

But back to the confessional. Now in my dotage with the Memory Cat having ensconced himself (yes, it’s a male) on my shoulders, I dug up the memory, dusted it, and had a good look.

I Wasn’t Seeking Forgiveness

Funny that. I didn’t even think about it! I was concerned that I had never consciously forgiven the men who had created the incident.

On one side, there was what I’d stupidly done in my ignorance. On the other side, there were the two men involved. What I’d done (or was purported to have done) didn’t even figure in my reminiscing. What figured, big time, was that I never forgave my assistant manager and his punky little friend.

That was what I needed to do.

And that’s why I was fumbling. I wanted to talk to someone who had “lived” before becoming a priest. I’d even called the previous day to ensure I’d have that specific priest. I somehow thought he’d understand best.

Well, there I was, and there he was. Me, unmasked, Father fully masked.

Which I really dislike. When I only see eyes, I can’t judge or get a connection. I need to see a full face.

But I fumbled and bumbled and stumbled my way through my story and probably sounded like a complete long-winded idiot.

Father homed in on what I’d done and not on my need to forgive the men that set the trap I so merrily traipsed into.

Hmm. That does sound convoluted, but I honestly felt I should forgive my assistant manager from long ago in the personal vendetta he, and his punky little friend, so successfully had waged against me in the scheme to bring me down.

But Father didn’t even go there. The fault was mine. The mistake I’d made was mine. And after I fumbled and bumbled and stumbled my way through my carefully thought-out and worded Act of Contrition and messed it up, the absolution was mine.

“Is there anything else?” Father asked, and I got up hurriedly.

No, there wasn’t.

“Wasn’t that enough for today,” I asked him.

If he smiled at that, I don’t know. That mask again.

Would I have been better off making an appointment for a confession so I could talk without time constraints and other parishioners sitting outside waiting to do their thing?  Zipping in and out in a couple of minutes.

Maybe. Maybe not. The mask would still have been there but not, I think, the ticking clock.

I drove home feeling like horse poop. Is feeling like horse poop any worse than, say, bird poop? Well, it’s much more substantial, so yes.

Today is Sunday. I went to church and received the Eucharist with a clear conscience.

Still, Why Don’t I Feel Better?

Methinks I’m going to take this whole mess to our Blessed Mother. As in right now. Without fumbling and bumbling.

REMEMBER, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly to thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to thee do I come; before thee, I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen.