I was in a Confessional Over 45 Minutes
By: Tracy Stengel
Tags: Family, Religion, Love, Relationships, Beyourself

The invitation

My uncle called me a few weeks before Christmas on a Wednesday night.

“My church is having some inspirational speakers and music tonight. It’s the Catholic equivalent of a revival.” He chuckled. “Afterward, there’s going to be several priests hearing confessions. Wanna go?”

I made a face. “Sure.” I didn’t have anything else to do. His church was a couple towns over from mine.

I was in the midst of what I call “My Dark Years”. Five solid years of trauma, grief, fear, and depression. I wasn’t suicidal, but I was not treating myself very well. I took risks with the mindset of, “If something happens to me, so be it.”

Bathing, getting dressed, and applying make-up took effort and I didn’t recognize myself afterward. Concealer hid the dark circles and rosy blush masked my dull skin. Mascara, liner and eyeshadow did nothing to put the light back in my eyes. Cosmetics can only do so much. They aren’t miracle workers.

An unexpected grace

What my uncle sarcastically referred to as a Catholic revival was held in the auditorium of a Catholic High School next to the church. The lights were low and Christmas lights lit up the stage. A large monitor hung on the wall behind the podium. The choir assembled to the left. It was lovely, but nothing like any Catholic event I’d ever attended. It made me smile.

The speakers and music were moving, and I was thankful the dim lighting hid my tears dripping in a steady cadence onto the front of my blouse. Back then, my sadness encompassed me, and it didn’t take much for it to slosh over the brim.

Two hours later, the crowd was directed to the hallway. There were five or six priests hearing confessions in different rooms. My uncle and I stood in separate lines. Mine moved rather quickly, each person entering and exiting every four or five minutes.

My uncle and I made eye contact and through a series of hand signals, we agreed to meet up outside the auditorium. Back then, we both smoked.

When it was my turn, I entered the classroom and saw the makeshift confessional. There was a chair in front of a draped cloth hanging from the ceiling. I could see the silhouette of the priest. He looked relaxed, kicked back low in the chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. He balanced a huge drink cup on his thigh. It looked like a Big Gulp from 7–11.

I started with the usual, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …” and jumped right into the sins that were bothering me the most. Namely, self-medicating with alcohol, deliberately not taking care of my health, complete absorption in my own problems and shunning well-meaning friends and family. Frankly, I was being a jerk. To myself and everyone around me.

But I felt powerless to stop. The depression’s hold on me was fierce.

It took me a minute and a half — tops — to relay the gist of what was going on.

He acknowledged the trauma I’d experienced was awful and wasn’t surprised by my reaction to it. “I’m sorry this happened and I can’t tell you I know how you feel, because I don’t.”

He couldn’t see me, but I nodded my head and wiped away tears. (Even now, as I type this, my cheeks are wet. Recalling that time period still evokes strong emotions.)

“But I know someone who knows exactly how you feel, because she’s endured much of the same pain and grief.”

I perked up a little. I wanted to meet this lady!

Then, he reminded me Mary watched her beloved son ridiculed, tortured and die in the cruelest of ways right in front of her. He was only thirty-two.

I thought about what a blow that must have been to her heart and what anguish she suffered. It was sobering.

“Talk to Mary. She’s your mother. Ask her to help you deal with this. She wants to comfort you.”

I absorbed his words.

“Do you say the rosary?”

I sighed. I tended to say the rosary in sporadic spurts. I’d start strong, going several weeks reciting it daily, then I’d get distracted and my great intentions petered out. It was kind of like my oft-renewed exercise programs and nutrition plans. “Sometimes,” I said, not about to inflate the regularity, even though it felt shameful to admit. I was in a confessional, for crying out loud.

“Saying the rosary is like talking to Mary,” he said.

“Okay. I’ll try to say it more often,” I promised.

“If you don’t, just carry it with you. Pull it out and let it rest in your palm. When you go on walks, hang on to it. It’ll be like you’re holding your mother’s hand.”

That, right there, melted me.

Then the priest told me he’d gone through a very difficult time himself. It had been in his early thirties when he’d been engaged and had a career. Turns out, there wasnt a wedding. Heartbroken, he made a lot of bad decisions. He didn't become a priest until he was in his forties. He ended up going into great detail about what happened and how he recovered.

I asked a lot of questions and before long, we were chuckling about the unpredictability of life. Never had I chitchatted during confession! I felt as if we were swapping war stories over a beer. It was delightful!

Time flew by, and finally, he gave me absolution.

I stood up. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate you.”

“I’ll pray for you,” he said.

“Thanks,” I murmured. “I need all the prayers I can get.” I turned to leave.

“Can you pray for me, too?”

I froze. “Um … yeah. What’s your name?” I expected him to say something like, Father Smith or Father Jones.

“Brian.”

“Brian,” I repeated, grinning.

When I walked out into the hallway, the lights were off and the auditorium was black. I found my uncle in the parking lot, his face awash with worry.

“Are you okay? Where have you been?”

I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Uh … I went to confession, remember?”

“You were in there all that time?” He looked incredulous.

“Like I’d lie,” I said, shrugging. Inside I was shaking with laughter.

We got in the car.

“You must’ve done something really bad. You were in there almost an hour.” He waited for me to explain.

I didn’t. I just let him wonder.

Was that a sin?

In conclusion

Six years later, Brian is still in my prayers. I think of him often. Someday, I’d like to see him again and tell him what an impact he had on my life.

Now, whenever I’m down or have a problem that is too big for me, I reach for my rosary and talk to my mom. Or sometimes we just take a long walk in silence. Holding hands all the way.