When I was younger, my family had to bribe me to go to confession once a year. I went literally dragging my feet and scowling like a demon.
I still do not like going to confession, but I sure do like having gone. Now when I exit the confessional, I have to hang on to the pews so as not to float away. Whatever kid I have dragged with me hears me say the same thing I always say: “You'll never get a better deal.”
This week, I began collecting stories about confession from my Catholic social media friends, and I am not even sure why. I will start with one of my own: My husband and I both went to confession one afternoon. I got out first while he was still in line, and he asked me who was in there—the Nigerian nit-picker, the almost-deaf crank or maybe Father Distracto? I reared back in mock horror, rolled my eyes heavenward and whispered, “Um, it's Jesus.”
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