So You Went to Confession and Now You Feel Worse

Faith

Did the priest misunderstand you

Did you mumble, fumble, and stumble, as you always seem to do in confession? After all, you don’t really know what you’re doing, do you now?

Raised Protestant and infused with a good dose of stiff-upper-lip Calvinism, confession was the most challenging part of Catholicism to come to grips with.

I remember very little about my year in RCIA. I also had other issues to deal with, like an ailing marriage. And that was 28 years ago.

The memory that ended up in the confessional yesterday, came out of nowhere. It was a feral cat leaping on a tiny field mouse. That cat is quite something. Missing a bit of tail and half of one ear. Absentee tufts of fur here and there. Multicolored speaks of an interesting ancestry.

It had been stalking that little field mouse, that would be me, for quite a while. In restless dreams, whiskers twitching, the mouse that is, I’d wake with my hands clenched in fists so tight I could not uncurl them. The left hand gave first, and I used it to slowly force back the fingers on my right hand.

What in heavens name was going on!

I stilled my mind, closed my eyes, and waited. The cat appeared, smirking, and so did the memory.

I was so young, and yes, somewhat naïve. I loved my job, loved what I did. Adored my manager but did not have a warm fuzzy feeling towards the second in command. Something about the man gave me the creeps. I was super polite and meticulous in my dealings with him, but I did not care for the man, and I knew it was mutual.

Enter The Trap

It is a trap as old as the hills. Set by men. An invitation to lunch but a required stop on the way. Something along the lines of an “invitation to see my heirloom paintings.”

Only now, 50 years later, do I realize it was a trap.

Back then, at work, doors suddenly closed everywhere. A promotion was turned down. An application was rejected because the position was only open to men. Smiles as I walked past the packed coffee room.

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