As a recently married Catholic, I have found comfort in the clear and strict nature of the faith: Give God a daily holler, visit Jesus on Sundays, and confess your sins once a month to stay self-aware and action-oriented.
Regular therapy is great, but God requires accountability. Not to mention, there’s no need for insurance when meeting with a priest. Your brother from another mother has it covered.
The Sunday Father Michael wasn’t there
At Sunday Mass, Father Michael was noticeably absent. During the Universal Prayer, the Deacon shared,
“For the repose of the soul of our pastor’s father, that he may be welcomed into the joy of God’s eternal kingdom, and that his family may be comforted in their grief. Let us pray to the Lord.”
The congregation replied. “Lord, hear our prayer.”
The timing wasn’t ideal — I had been meaning to schedule my next confession with him. I was long overdue, and my executive dysfunction would not allow me to move on with other tasks until my unheard sins were forgiven. There was so much to repent for:
- Judging a co-worker for wearing leggings to the office and trying to hide it under a wool coat in 72-degree weather.
- Continuing to make myself a latte almost every day, despite my doctor asking me to cut back on dairy.
- Leaving our closet in chaos, knowing full well it was giving my husband an ulcer.
All sins that would surely fast-track me to hell.
The case for a substitute
My husband suggested that I reach out to one of the more junior fathers, who would surely be willing and capable. But there would be no rapport — no context to my neuroticism. I would have to start from the very beginning, sharing the details of my traumatic encounter with mud on the playground and everybody’s obsession with going outside. Not to mention, how strange would it be to ask for advice from a pastor who seemingly has yet to shave? Would he even be able to recognize a VHS tape if he saw one? Would he be wised by the trials and tribulations of life’s cruel jokes to provide sufficient context to his counsel?
Of course, there’s always the option to wait. Sooner or later, Father Michael will return, and when he does, he’ll have an earful of sins to tend to, which might actually bring him some joy, seeing a young parishioner so dedicated to their spiritual upkeep. But I assume there’s a polite buffer period required before I come in hot with my relatively inconsequential problems. Too soon might come off as inconsiderate; too late, and it may seem like I’ve abandoned the sacrament altogether.
The return
Father Michael returned to preside over Mass earlier than expected. From what I could tell, he appeared to be in good spirits, although having experienced significant loss myself, I’m not so naive. Usually sprite and charming, he was softer in tone and more sober in his presence. The forced smile on his face was familiar to me — a reminder that the most private pain is often so public.
I returned home, drafted an email to share my heartfelt condolences, and sent it on its way.
My guilt can always wait another day.