I was raised Catholic– groaning through weekly Sunday services, begging to sleep through Sunday School, detesting the gruelingly long Holy Day of Obligation masses, and dreading the strangest hallmark of being Catholic: CONFESSION.
If I was lucky, I could usually almost make it a full two years without ever cramming myself onto the kneelers in the claustrophobic dark box of shame. But when that dreaded morning arrived, my agony usually went something like this: get behind the last person in line in the pews. Plop down on the uncomfortably wooden bench. Nervously rack my brain for vague accounts of my accumulated wrongdoings. Double check to make sure they sounded legit enough to be deep, but nothing too bad because I could never recall which sins were menial and which were mortal. As the line moved, my pure anguish increased, and I found myself wondering if I’d be the first person to puke in the confessional. Priests and janitors must hate that.
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