I grew up fast in sixth grade in the dark confessional box at Saint Cecilia Church.
I read my prepared list of safe sins in the dim light: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. Since then I have lied three times to my parents, taken the Lord’s name in vain twice and stolen a dollar from my sister’s purse.”
It stayed dark and quiet.
At last, Father Ryan abruptly broke the silence, “Son, are you sure these are all your sins?”
I’m panicked. How does Father Ryan know Lana Thorpe kissed me behind the lilac bush, and I let her?
“Th-that’s it, Father,” I stuttered, and slipped out of the box before receiving my penance.
This lapse of rigorous honesty stayed with me for decades.
Lordy, I think it might still be there.