I grew up in a little
town in Alberta/Saskatchewan, Canada. Our town’s main street is the border
between the two provinces. Although my dad and his construction crew built
our church, St. Anthony of Padua, our whole family of seven kids proudly
took credit for the work.
During the 1950s and
1960s our parish was blessed to have Father Bernie Gorman as our pastor.
He was a most gentle and loving man, and a great friend to my parents. He
often came to our house for dinner and was a regular at their Saturday
night card games. Everyone went to him with their problems; no matter how
busy he was, he always had time for everyone. He was loved.
For a
ten-year-old child to go to confession and admit imperfection to a great
man like Father Gorman was a real chore. Because he was the sweetest,
nicest person and a man of God, it was very difficult for me to
think for one moment that he wouldn’t somehow think less of me when he saw
me again at—horror of horrors—my parent’s home!
So, after worrying
about this for an entire week, I came to the conclusion that the thing to
do was to devise some sort of scheme wherein the holy man of God wouldn’t
recognize me in the confessional.
Although it was our
routine to receive the sacrament of reconciliation on Friday evenings, I
waited until Saturday afternoon to go to confession that week. This was
part one of my deception plan.
As the little sliding
partition opened in the tiny confessional and the familiar silhouette of
our dear pastor came into view, I put my mouth to the several silk scarves
I had nabbed from my older sister’s dresser. This was part two of the
plan. I disguised my voice in the very best way possible, and carried on
with my confession.
Looking back on the
scenario, I remember that the sins I had committed were things like
sneaking a piece of candy during Lent and thinking bad things about my
brothers. Through it all I coughed violently and tried to talk in a very
sophisticated, albeit hoarse whisper, through the layers of scarves that
were stuffed in my mouth.
Father Gorman was his
usual kind and loving self as he listened intently. He said a few words of
encouragement and gave me my small penance. After he had said the words of
absolution, he added, "By the way, Denise, if you don’t mind, would you
tell your dad I’ll be ready to go fishing around four o’clock?" I
swallowed, coughed, and choked, "Okay, Father!"
Mortified, I slunk
into the darkness of the church to say my penance, wondering if hiding
behind silk scarves while having a coughing fit in the confessional could
possibly be yet another sin.
Denise R. Buckley
Comox, British Columbia,
Canada
Confession 101
Confession 101