71/365 Confessions

Sometime early in Fr. Miguel's stay at our parish, I went to confession. I hadn't been in a while--I grew tired of our former pastor waxing poetic or telling me how young I was. And after the first time sitting in that weird little carpeted room (the walls were carpeted, I mean), I started to realize what reconciliation was for.

I may have it all wrong, but it's not about a litany of tiny nuisance behaviors. And I don't know about everyone else, but my examination of conscience doesn't include a lot of lying, cheating, and stealing. I don't have the inclination to rob banks or have an affair or bear false witness in court. All my sins play out in my relationships. Every single one, in fact, these days. I think it's about learning about yourself and admitting that, yeah, that didn't go so well. And going to confession and talking it out is a way to admit that I am frail and petty and often a bitch. And it helps me to hold back next time. I remember what I say, I listen to what Miguel says in return, and I work to change.

It's more akin to free psychotherapy, frankly, for me these days. Not that it is only that, but it helps put a mirror up to my life and really work to change or to stay on a path of change. Back even 10 years ago, or 15, that's not what this was. I left a confessional about the same as when I went in, except I could check off some box saying that yes, I went to confession this year. But oftentimes I held back more than I said because I didn't want to get into it. Not that I didn't want to admit something, but more that I didn't feel like there was enough time in the evening to explain how it happened. How did I come to be there and why the hell did I stay/do that/say that/be that? Impatient Jesuits or a pastor who didn't handle what was said in complete confidence or a pastor whose relationship with me was all about power. I just didn't need to get into this or that or why. So I wouldn't.

Last year I started bringing things to the table, small things in the grand scheme of things (I have not murdered anyone, for instance, or even anything close to that sort of thing), but still things that nagged me. Why were they still important? Why bring them up now? Because enough time had passed to relieve my own shame? Because finally I felt like here was a priest who knew me well enough to know what I meant? Because I was in my mid-thirties and it was time to let it go? I don't know. Probably a mix of all that, with the majority of it having to do with the person sitting across from me.

I never appreciated reconciliation until then. I had always been staunchly Protestant in my beliefs on the subject: it's between me and God. But Benedict's ladder of humility makes it very clear: do not conceal from the abbot or prioress any sinful thoughts entering your heart, or any wrongs committed in secret, but rather confess them humbly. The struggles I have that I ignore will not go away. Only by recognizing them, admitting them, listening to my heart and seeking out good objective advice will they begin to diminish in power.

So I went to reconciliation last night. And I came home from it with a new will to do right.

76/365 The Church in Ireland

So...

The pope writes a letter about the sex abuse crisis in Ireland. Which is a big thing (the crisis, not the letter). And at the end of the letter, after admonishing bishops and saying how sorry he is, he offers some concrete initiatives for Ireland.

The people of Ireland are to fast and pray and participate in Eucharistic Adoration.

THAT will fix it, right?

80/365 History: Sophia's Baptism II

I have this baby. And I'm sick. So sick. Someone--my mother? my husband?--calls Fr. Bill and he comes to see me. I know I must be in bad shape because after he does the blessing of the sick, he stands at the foot of my bed. Staring. Nobody is asking me how the baby is (all those new mom guides warn you--after the baby is born, nobody notices you anymore, just the baby--but this isn't true for me. Everyone is staring at me).

We aren't friendly anymore at this point--when I left to have this baby, the last week of school, things went badly. That's putting it mildly. I'll blame it on me, even though I probably only hold 75% of the blame. It was a long time coming and I refused to see anything in shades of gray and then...I had too much to say.

We'd gone to lunch so I could tell him how ticked off I was. But it didn't work out that way and he wound up convincing me to consider volunteering at the school the way I'd planned--the plan was a year of volunteering a few hours a week and the next year back in the classroom. But even if I'd done the year of volunteering, the school closed the next year and I can't say I was upset.

But later, I mean, it's been almost 9 years, I softened and let it roll off my back. I survived--Joey is gone, Sr. Fern, Fr. Bill, everyone, really, except a few students and parents who adored me. I should have stayed in my classroom with my head down and did my job. I know better now.

At the moment, though, I realized I was going to have this baby baptized at the parish I no longer felt like I belonged to. I debated calling Mike's uncle and doing this down in Cairo, except my family wasn't in Cairo...I was aggravated, but we scheduled it for September 16 solidly and went with it.

226/365 History: The Softball Team

Colleen O'Toole asks me if I want to play softball with some other women at church. She mentions April, Bonnie, and Melody, a trio of sisters I'm only vaguely aware of. Jessica and Nicole I know better. I stand there in the back of church writing a check for the scrip we buy for grocery stores--the parish gets a kick back, or, rather, a donation. And thoughts run through my head: I hate softball. Softball is a version of group penance. I got it, I got it, wham. Eh, don't worry about it, facial wounds bleed a lot.

"Sure," I tell her.

We go to practice in the park. We suck. Sr. Vanda is on our team. She can't run. Nobody wants to be catcher. I'm drafted, which is fine with me actually because it's slow pitch and I fear outfield.

The first game, we arrive at Forest Park to get ready. We have helmets and bats from the grade school sports locker. Our uniforms are t-shirts from a bar. Assuming most teams were parent organizations and parishes, we didn't think anything about this. Then we met the opposing team. They had the full polyester getup, hats, the tight pants and the shirts with the cursive across the front like a high school boys team. I remember these from back then, in fact, tight pants and cute boys...anyway, they are not cute on these women. These women have brought their trophies. They display them on the picnic tables around their fans. Our fans are our husbands and a few bored looking children (mostly O'Tooles).

They feel bad for me and let me borrow their catcher's mask, even though we aren't supposed to even need one.

They have one player with an artificial leg.

They beat the pants off us. 20 to 1. We're done in the 4th inning or something shameful like that. They pretend to shake our hands graciously afterward, drinking their Bud Lites and taking off the sweatbands.

"You ladies should invest in some bats," they point out as Bonnie loads our grade school surplus bats into a beat up canvas bag. "Spend more on your bats than you did on your socks."

Jessica tells me later at the bar that she spoke to one of them during an inning when she was miraculously on base. They thought they'd joined a competitive league, not a church picnic league. "Bullshit," Nicole says. "They can read the brochure as well as anyone else."

"Yeah, they were there to smash us," I agree.

But maybe not. We did go on that season to lose every game, after all. Group penance indeed.

Plus that's when I met Lynn, that first night in the bar. She made my skin crawl even then.