I've got stories to tell.
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And so she spoke.
And so it listened.
The stories, absorbed by the dark, ornate walls of the wooden box.
But the Confessional knew more about her life than she did.
O My God, relying on Thy infinite goodness and promises, I hope to obtain pardon of my sins, the help of Thy grace and life everlasting, through the merits of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Redeemer.
It wasn’t like she ever felt the need to confess. Ever.
She rather much liked her secrets, her past. Tucked away tight in the recesses of her mind and heart. She reveled and was disgusted in the memory of them. She thought of them often, when she was feeling happy. when she was feeling sad, when she was trying to connect to others.
But to confess, never.
And then it happened. How did she ever come to the mission?
Some sort of mistake. Maybe fate? Maybe destiny?
Who would’ve guessed that the old door led to a mission? One unassuming door, on one busy street.
But she walked in and there it was. A wooden box. Ornately carved, a beautiful thing to see. It stood by itself in a cold room, behind an unassuming door on a busy street.
She admired it from afar, but it pulled her closer.
She admired it from close-up. And it continued to embrace her. And then she found herself inside the wooden box.
As beautiful inside as it was outside, it began to tell her the story of how it had left Europe, long long ago, over a tumultuous sea, in and out of churches, listening to the stories of all those who came to confess. It listened to those who needed to confess and those that wish they hadn’t. It listened to the young and old; it listened without judgment, welcoming all who entered.
It was waiting for this moment, waiting for her, but first, before it would tell her its stories, it needed to hear her confessions. And so she kneeled, she sat and she stood, confessing all she had done and all she had failed to do. She did it in hopes that in turn it would share its stories with her.
i confess to Almighty God
and to you, my Brothers and Sisters,
that i have greatly sinned,
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what i have done and
in what i have failed to do,
Pray while striking the breast three times
through my fault, through my fault,
through my most grievous fault;
therefore i ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,
all the Angels and Saints,
and you, my Brothers and Sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord our God.
I don’t know why I did it. I’m not even sure it’s that big of a deal.
No one knows. No one will ever know.
I hate where I live now. Before my house was big. It was white and we had an upstairs.
We had pool. A pool in the backyard, not downstairs and around the corner in between the two buildings. Not one where everyone can see me in my bathing suit. We had a pool we didn’t even have to share.
We had a laundry room, in the house.
I had my own room, not one had to share with my brother when he comes to visit. A room I didn’t give up when my uncle comes to stay with us .
A house that had a kitchen, but not a cockroach filled kitchen like the one I have now.
A house with a backyard, with enough room to play soccer. A backyard with trees, not a balcony for a backyard with a bunch of ignored and dying plants.
A home where I didn’t have to pretend we don’t have a cat.
So, when my friend said, “We can take you home”, there was no way I was going to take them there. There to the place where my life sucks and my hopes die. There where I fight with my mother because she is as unhappy as I am.
“Yes, I would love a ride home.”
Take me to the top of the hill.
“Yes, this is my house on the one on the right. Oh yes, thank you. It is a nice house.”
No one knows I don’t really live there.
“You don’t need to walk me to the door.”
No one will ever know.
“Thanks for the ride. You can go. I guess my mom isn’t home yet.”
No one knows.
“I’ll check if the side gate is open. See you tomorrow.”
And there I will sit and wait five, or ten minutes. They are gone and now.
I will walk myself back. Back down the hill, back down to the busy street, back, across the street from the McDonald’s, back into the dark apartment where the cockroaches are waiting for me.
I am 10 and I don’t know why I did it.
No one will know, but it feels wrong.
Forgive me, father.
Writer - Ivory James 