An Odd Penance

I walked into a church in Ireland, in County
Dublin to be almost exact, with a greatly
troubled mind. I was wet through to my soul.
The rain had been falling in torrents all
day and showed no signs of abating. Perhaps
this was why the place was so empty. I took
off my saturated overcoat and hung it by the
door. The church was sleepy and still with
that peace which fills such places, yet
there was no peace in my heart, only
agitation. I took a deep breath and pulling
my damp scarf about my face, stepped into
the confessional. The small partition was
pulled across and this deep voice said,
"Bless you my son." The priest had a rich
earthy Irish voice, bubbling with
compassion. The thought did cross my mind
that he could tell I was a male and yet I
could not see him, only a hazy outline,
though not in the least frightening. "Ah,
er, bless me, Father. I have um, er, sinned
- I don't know how long," I stumbled over

(3)

the words of the ritual I had learned as a
child. "Relax now, like a good man. Amnesia
is not a sin, not as far as I remember
anyway. Just relax and tell me what's
troubling you." "Bad thoughts, Father. Very
bad thoughts, Father. Terrible, in fact."
"And no doubt the last time you were at
confession was puberty. It's not uncommon.
Oh no, not at all, my son. Now, do these
thoughts revolve around members of the
opposite sex?'
"Well,no Father. They revolve around my
Uncle Francie."
"I'm shocked son, but sure in this day
and age, people don't know if they are
coming or going. Having bad thoughts about
your Uncle. 'tis terrible alright. Are ye
married at all? What kind of bad thoughts?"

"Well I want to - I want to ---" I
stumbled for words.
"Go on, finish the job."

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