The Book and the Confession

I said I was going to finish telling you about yesterday, today, but my enthusiasm to do so has kind of fizzled.

So I’m going to backtrack and tell you about today first, then I’ll talk about yesterday if I have the energy. If not, it’ll keep for another time (it’s nothing that exciting, anyhow).

After all the hard work of yesterday, I spent today in my pajamas. We all did. It was lovely—something we almost never do. I knew I’d have to get dressed at some point, though, because I’d decided to go to the Vigil Mass for the 4th Sunday in Advent at 5:30.

This morning the boys and I played pirates for a while—fun for them, but a bit frustrating for me, being more of the Barbie type. I finished a novel I’d been reading—The Widow of Larkspur Lane by Lawana Blackwell, which I enjoyed very much—and began reading Amanda Grange’s Mr. Knightley’s Diary, which my mom and dad had bought for me for Christmas (they had asked me to pick something out at the store while they were here last weekend).

Mr. Knightley’s Diary is about Mr. George Knightley, the hero of Jane Austen’s Emma. Though I’ve yet to read Northanger Abbey, of all the Austen books I’ve read thus far, Emma is my favorite; and while most people would probably think this is weird, Mr. Knightley is my favorite Jane Austen hero.

So I was reading my book, and I got to page 26. Then suddenly the book began to repeat itself: there were the title and copyright pages, and page 1 again. I thought, oh well, they accidentally stuck the first 26 pages in twice; it’ll be fine. So I skipped ahead to the second page 26, at which point I discovered that pages 27 through 58 were missing altogether.

[This sort of thing happened to me once before, when I was completely absorbed in a really terrific book---all of the sudden, a whole huge chunk of pages had been omitted. Back to the bookstore I went, and then I waited a whole week for the new copy they ordered for me to come in.]

Brian suggested I run to the bookstore before heading to Mass, and so I did. The traffic was horrendous. The bookstore was wildly busy. The fellow at the Customer Service desk was clueless. And so I waited in line for a cashier, and of course I picked the wrong line (the slow-moving one, that is). A lady I recognized from the Lutheran church we attend was right behind me in line, so I chatted with her for a bit while we waited. And then the cashier had to call up the manager, who was quick to let me take the new, not-messed-up book. (By the way, when I went to get a fresh copy, the very next copy of that book on the pile had the same printing error. If I hadn’t brought it up to the cashier, some other poor soul would have bought it and been disappointed.)

I got back to the car at 4:20. I’d deliberately tried to hurry, you see, because I knew that if I was quick enough, I might be able to go to confession before Mass. The confessional is open from 4-5 p.m on Saturdays.  It hadn’t been my original plan to go to confession, but since I was out and about and going to be arriving at church early anyway. . .

I’d planned to go to the penance service this past Monday night, but didn’t. I told myself I didn’t really need to go to go to confession. After all, I did one fairly recently (before my confirmation in October). I didn’t have any mortal sins to confess. Oh, and surely there would be huge long lines of people who hadn’t been to confession in ages—people who needed it much more than I did. I should forgo it to allow more time for those folks.

Well, as you might imagine, my conscience was not liking those excuses. I had read somewhere recently that it’s a special thing to receive the Sacrament of Reconciliation (confession) right before Christmas, so that we can present our most pure, grace-filled selves before the baby Jesus.

What a beautiful thought.

And so I went. There really weren’t very many people there at all, actually; although of course many began to show up just as the time for confessions was supposed to be winding down.

Confession: I don’t like confession! Oh, I do think it’s a wonderful sacrament, and I’m very grateful for it. I remember how blessedly FREE I felt after I did my first confession—34 years of baggage unloaded; I left feeling 50 pounds lighter.

However, it is rather nerve-wracking. You know there are people right outside that door, hoping you’ll be quick so they can get in there and get their own turns over with. Sometimes, too, it’s difficult to know how to say things. Part of the problem, I’m sure, is pride. We know we have to tell our sins to the priest, but just to say the bad stuff without cushioning it with the good—well, it seems pretty harsh.

I always think how unfair it seems that, unless you know your priest personally (say, have him over for dinner a lot), all he really knows of you is what you tell him in confession.

Of course he cannot break the Seal of Confession and blab to anyone about what I’ve said, but in his private thoughts, I would imagine Father M- believes I am a shrewish wife and mother, a judgmental friend, and a complete and total glutton. And all those things are true, but only sometimes. They aren’t the whole me.

Well, anyway. Mass was beautiful tonight, as always. This has been such a peaceful advent season. Of course it doesn’t hurt that no one is coming here and we are going nowhere for Christmas. The stress level is way down as a result.

But it is more than that. It’s what’s in my heart. The love of God is in me and pouring out through me (as best it can with these limited resources!).

I am more grateful than I can say.