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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. Boyhood secrets of the Saturday confessional. By J. G. Fabiano As I walked into the teacher's room between classes I noticed two of my colleagues talking to each other in the corner of the room. Their chairs formed a right angle, with one another facing forward and the other facing to the side. A frightening image came to mind because it looked like a confessional without the partition. Right then I was transported back to my childhood when my mother and father told me I had to go to confession every Saturday morning to confess to everything bad I had done during the past week. The basic flaw in this logic was how many sins could a 10-year old boy commit in the course of one week? But, arguing was futile because it was more important to go to confession than it was to sin in the first place. My mother used to drive me to the church at 9-o-clock every Saturday morning. She would visit with the other churchgoers while I walked alone up the center aisle to the confessional booths. That walk scared the hell out of me because I knew I was getting closer and closer to the stage where God lived. One thing I clearly understood was that God was not poor. He lived in a place that was surrounded by gold ornaments and rich red and purple tapestries. The closer I got the more intimidating it all became. On top of the altar was a large gold cross that portrayed what our savior did for us. A couple of times I got the courage to look up but quickly stared back down toward my feet when I realized He might just be looking down. I was taught to bow my head and give a quick kneel when I reached the front of the altar. I did this quickly and in fear that I might be asked to join God for a visit. That was something I sincerely did not want to do. In fact, every time I passed our church or even a graveyard I was told to bow my head. The other day, as I was driving with a few of my friends, I bowed my head just as we passed the church. One of my buddies caught me and asked what I was doing? I told him that it had something to do with a boyhood injury. It wasn't exactly a lie. Approaching the confessional there were statues of the Virgin Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus. They all wore colorful clothes and had perfect complexions. They also looked right down at me and they were so real I dared not look back. I mean, what if they blinked? There were two confessional booths, with the priest in his booth in the middle, but even so, there was always a line. One just quietly tagged onto the end, kept one's head bowed and never said a word. What could you say? Hey, pal, any good sins committed this week? The line never moved fast. It made you wonder about the kind of people you were waiting in line with and what terrible sins they could possibly have committed to take so long to confess. I was convinced that some of them were murderers and thieves. After concentrating on my sneakers until I had every stitch memorized it would be my turn to approach the confessional. The confessional box was constructed of some kind of dark wood that could only be found in places where God lived. It had sculptures of angels and devils all over it with multiple crosses to show that good always overcame evil. For good measure there were a few gargoyles on the top that peered down to make sure everybody was real sorry for their sins. The problem was I could never tell the difference between the angels and the devils, they all looked the same to me. As I opened the door I noticed that the door handle was always cold no matter how many people had touched it. As a child I thought this was because I was not only entering a place where I could confess my sins but I was also entering a kind of dimension where only the good can survive. The room was small, cold and damp, the size of a small closet with only enough room to kneel down. It was also remarkably dark. Looking straight ahead all I could see was some kind of mesh screen with a closed door on the other side. There was a little window in the wall where I could see a lit crucifix and it also was made of gold. When I got older I wondered why nobody had ever stolen it. I guess just having a thought like that was a sin. Usually I had to wait and stare at nothing. But, I could always hear something on the other side of the window, a mumbling and every now and then a sigh or a cough. Once I was kneeling there for so long I put my ear to the window so I could hear what was happening on the other side. As soon as I pushed my ear against the wire mesh the door slid open and there I was ear to eye with the parish priest. We both jumped back at the same time and the priest was able to stay on his chair but I, on the other hand, fell off the kneeling bench and onto the floor, hitting my head on the side of the confessional with a loud bang. Later I was told that some of the children waiting their turn were told by their parents that they had better tell the truth or what happened to me would happen to them. For the next couple of weeks I became a kind of cult hero to them as the kid who actually managed to get in trouble while in the confessional. I got up as quickly as I could to meet the disapproving eye of the parish priest and quickly said: "Bless me father for I have sinned." There are few statements in life that a Catholic will never forget and that one will stay with me forever. The priest responded: "Other than trying to hear what was not your business what other sins did you commit this week?" I was actually kind of relieved because now I would not have to make up more than a couple of sins for the week. I told the priest that I had unholy thoughts. At 10 years old I didn't have a clue what an unholy thought was except maybe for the time I wished my older sister would fall down the stairs and break her leg so I could have the room on the second floor of our house. I also told him that I disobeyed my mother and father. If, I had indeed done that I would not have been in any condition to visit the confessional. Discipline in the 1950's and discipline today are two distinctly different philosophies. After I was through the man behind the screen told me to say 10 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers. In all my years of going to confession, whatever I confessed, true or false, I was always given the same penance. I wondered at the time if everyone was given the same thing no matter what they did, or if a murderer had to say a few more Hail Marys and Our Fathers. The priest would then mumble what I presumed was some kind of blessing and slid the door shut with a hiss and a final clunk. I loved that sound because it meant I could get the hell out of there and back into the real world and do important stuff like play baseball with my friends. Right then I was brought back to present reality when one of my colleagues in the staff room asked me what I was doing staring at the two of them while they were trying to have a private conversation. I told them both to say 10 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers, and continued on my way. The End
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