I Confess, What a Mess

Below Donahue Pass

Yosemite National Park

Unencumbered. That's how I felt standing on the spongy shore of this tarn below Donahue Pass. Nothing could harm me. Nothing could stir up anxiety. Mosquito bites ceased itching. Thirst dissipated. Sweat evaporated. Sound, the buzzing of insects and gusts of wind, vanished into the crystalline silence of my empty thoughts. I felt the light on my skin.

I stare at this picture years later, and for whatever reason, I recall my first confession at age 10. "Confession," my mother tells me, "is a way to clear your conscience. You simply tell the priest what you've done wrong, and he forgives you." That's neat, but scary, I think. I ask my mother, "What's a conscience, and why do I need to clear it? And what if I can't think of anything I've done wrong?" She laughs and tells me to go clean my room.

I ride my banana-seat bike to Church. I walk down a side aisle and stand in line with the other children. We are waiting for the priest to hear our confessions. Thank goodness I can hide in the secret box so he can't see me, so he doesn't know me. I can be incognito. It's like wearing a hat, or sunglasses, in a crowd.

I enter the door of the mahogany box, the confessional. It's like a big closet. I know it's ok to enter, because a little red light outside the box switches to green just as Charlotte da Silva, my classmate, exits the box. She looks pale and beautiful, like snow. "How'd it go?" I ask her reverently. She is clutching rosary beads wound around her wrist. She doesn't answer me. She doesn't look at me. She simply turns and walks down the aisle and exits the Church. Blinding sunlight swallows her silhouette as she opens the door.

I gulp and push open the confessional door. I step inside, and the door closes itself behind me. I find myself steeped in darkness. It smells musty and wooden, like a train tunnel. I feel giddy and unwell, like the time I scribble on the couch and my mother says, "Wait till your father gets home in 3 hours!" Suddenly light enters my cave. A wooden slat, no bigger than a piece of toast, snaps open in the confessional divider. A voice from the other side gently says, "Please kneel my child." I kneel (I have few other options). I can peer through the little opening, and I see a bearded priest, our pastor, sitting with his hand on his forehead staring perpendicularly to my gaze. I wonder if he has a headache.

"When was your last confession?" he asks.

"This is my first," I answer.

"Proceed, my child," he instructs. "Make a good confession."

So far, so good. My mom had told me to expect these types of preliminaries. I proceed:

"Well, about a month ago, I went to my friend's house. Michael Ripley. His parents were not home. We were running around his kitchen in our socks yelling and screaming. We were sliding into cabinets and the dog was all excited and barking. I saw a tray on the counter. It looked like cake, like a big chocolate chip cookie cake. I took a big piece of the cake and put it in my mouth when Michael wasn't looking. It tasted awful, though! It tasted like olives or mushrooms. I wasn't expecting that! So when Michael wasn't looking again, I spat it out back into the tray. Then I had to rinse my mouth out with water. Later on I asked Michael what was that food in that tray? 'Oh,' he said, 'that's my family's dinner tonight. It's quiche!' I had never even heard of quiche. I don't ever want to eat quiche. Never again! And I'm very sorry for spitting out the food! I will never do it again!"

There is a pause. The pause lengthens. I peer through the little slat. The priest has both hands over his eyes. He is rubbing them. His shoulders seem to be trembling. I can't tell if he is suppressing laughter or quietly sobbing.

"Hello?" I ask. "I said I'm very sorry. I will never do it again."

The priest sighs. He finally asks, "Did you tell your friend that you tasted his dinner then spat it back into the pan?" His voice is a little shaky.

"No," I answer.

"Well," the priest says, "How do you think his family must have felt eating food that you spat out?"

"I guess I never thought of that," I say. Now I feel really bad, and I picture Michael's mom wearing an apron with flowers on it and humming and smiling and taking the quiche out of the oven with her oven mitts on. She is making her family dinner, because she loves them. And I ruined it. I ruined it all. It was like I spat on her plate and Michael's plate and the plate of everyone in Michael's family. And in their dog's supper dish.

Tears burn my eyes and roll down my cheeks. "I'm so sorry," I say. "I'm so very sorry."

"Well," the priest says. "Know that God loves you, a sinner. Know that not only does He forgive you your sins, but He forgets your sins as well. Know that from this moment forward you are a new creation, a new child of God. You are the prodigal son He joyfully welcomes home. Please say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys as you think about these things. And when you get home I want you to help make dinner. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit... And Jerome, please greet your mother and father for me."

I sit quietly. I can breathe. I can move. I feel weightless and unencumbered.

"You may leave the confessional. Now, please," the priest says.

I get up and note the sweat on my knees. I exit the confessional and see the little light change from red to green. The next child in line asks, "How'd it go?" I don't answer him, though. I walk down the aisle saying the first Our Father. I exit the Church and feel the light on my skin.

By the time I am home I have finished the Hail Marys. My mother is making dinner. I walk into the kitchen and empty the cheese packets into the macaroni.