Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I talked back to my dad, didn’t turn my homework in on time, gossiped about my friend.
These were the refrains of any Catholic kid growing up in the 70s and 80s, attending to confession before our First Communion or Confirmation, during CCD classes, Christmas, Easter, or other holy day of obligation.
Who didn’t quake when they were presented with the long wait on the hard-stacked maple wooden pews, knowing the kneeler where your feet rested would soon be occupied by you, your sins, your Hail Marys, and hopefully, your absolution? The boom of a priest’s voice resonating through the black curtain of teenager doom was a prospect too much to bear. The confessed words, though practiced, never tumbled out in the order you anticipated or had practiced, thus creating another conundrum.
Should one lie about their lies?
But course, once back at home or in the family pew, you were greeted by a smiling mother who hoped you experienced a state of profundity, and be so inclined to be on your best behavior for every moment hence. Or at least until the holiday guests were gone. Or perhaps your father met you with a sly look in his eye which acknowledged he too was victim of such torture when he was a teen, and look how he has survived.
For my paid subscribers, here’s the original essay that prompted a deeper, ironic look at how we interacted with the parish priests. Even our meals were not immune to such dinner table companions.
Also included one of my mother’s favorite recipes, served at soup supper, to go along with the essay.
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