My last confession was about ten years ago. I really only did it because my mom wanted me to. I had always found the whole thing creepy. Some of this was because I had never liked confined spaces, never have and, I imagine, never will. Big and open and wide is how I like to live my life, not small and stuffy and tight. Whenever I went into confession, I always felt like those little walls were closing in on me and so I wanted to get the confession over as quickly as possible. Now some of that desire for speed surely also came from being embarrassed, I had always done something wrong (hadn't we all?) and it was the nagging feeling that my mom knew I had done something wrong and thought I needed to atone.
Moms always know when you've done something wrong, that is what they'd like you to believe anyways, but in making me go to confession it just seemed to confirm all of that to me. She'd look at me before I went in and it was like she knew I had sneaked a piece of my classmate's cake when no one was looking or that I hadn't done my nightly prayers or that I had looked up dirty pictures on the internet and giggled with my friends. But looking back now, with the hindsight of an adult with her own children, I wonder if she actually ever knew. I may very well have just been projecting my guilt onto her own face that looked so much like my own. Sure, she probably could see that I felt bad about something, but could she really tell exactly what I'd done? It's odd that even now, as I fail to see my children's ill acts across their faces I wonder if my mother truly had this power, truly had this superhuman ability that I lack.
I don't make my own children go to confession, but I decided a while ago that if they ever wanted to, I would let them. Living an open life meant I had to be willing to let my children make some decisions for themselves. Maybe one of my children would end up feeling comfort from it and take some solace or a feeling of protection from the small walls. Maybe it would be good for them to have a space to talk about wrongs they think they've done with someone who isn't me or their father or their friends. So far, neither have asked to go, but when my mom comes to visit, they sometimes ask me about confession and about my last one.
In my last one, I confessed that I did not like confessions and I wondered if the priest had ever heard that before. I wondered if most people have very benign things to confess or if the priest held secrets of murder and lust and blasphemy. I wanted to ask the priest to confess to me, but that wasn't fair, I knew for I wasn't a priest. It wasn't my place. But I wanted to all the same.
My last confession ended ended with me confessing two more major things: that I had married without telling my mother and that I did not plan on coming to any more confessions. I honestly don't remember the priest's reaction to the marriage, but he was deeply concerned that this was my last confession.
(Lisa McInerney)
Chełmno, church of SS. James and Nicholas, until 1806 Franciscans', confessional, ca. 1870 by Pko: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chelmno_kosciol_pofranciszkanski_konfesjonal.jpg
Moms always know when you've done something wrong, that is what they'd like you to believe anyways, but in making me go to confession it just seemed to confirm all of that to me. She'd look at me before I went in and it was like she knew I had sneaked a piece of my classmate's cake when no one was looking or that I hadn't done my nightly prayers or that I had looked up dirty pictures on the internet and giggled with my friends. But looking back now, with the hindsight of an adult with her own children, I wonder if she actually ever knew. I may very well have just been projecting my guilt onto her own face that looked so much like my own. Sure, she probably could see that I felt bad about something, but could she really tell exactly what I'd done? It's odd that even now, as I fail to see my children's ill acts across their faces I wonder if my mother truly had this power, truly had this superhuman ability that I lack.
I don't make my own children go to confession, but I decided a while ago that if they ever wanted to, I would let them. Living an open life meant I had to be willing to let my children make some decisions for themselves. Maybe one of my children would end up feeling comfort from it and take some solace or a feeling of protection from the small walls. Maybe it would be good for them to have a space to talk about wrongs they think they've done with someone who isn't me or their father or their friends. So far, neither have asked to go, but when my mom comes to visit, they sometimes ask me about confession and about my last one.
In my last one, I confessed that I did not like confessions and I wondered if the priest had ever heard that before. I wondered if most people have very benign things to confess or if the priest held secrets of murder and lust and blasphemy. I wanted to ask the priest to confess to me, but that wasn't fair, I knew for I wasn't a priest. It wasn't my place. But I wanted to all the same.
My last confession ended ended with me confessing two more major things: that I had married without telling my mother and that I did not plan on coming to any more confessions. I honestly don't remember the priest's reaction to the marriage, but he was deeply concerned that this was my last confession.
(Lisa McInerney)
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