there's a candle lit for you

An old friend once said, "Confession gives the heart a chance to know that it doesn't have to hold it all in." I have never been more nervous about confessing.

10 December, 2009
I was sitting in homeroom when seniors with last names beginning with N through S were called down to the gymnasium for Confession. Reluctantly, I made my way through the crowded doorway and trudged down the stairs. I remember marveling over how many seniors were heading towards the gym, until it hit me that it was still homeroom, and they sold bagels in the commons. The lonely road began when I passed the cliques near the food lines and entered the gym lobby. I signed in at the table and followed the candlelit pathway through the gym doors. A powerpoint played with reflection questions following the Commandments and the Beatitudes. The first slide I saw read, "Why do we skip Mass?" This was my chance to leave. I don't skip mass. I attend weekly with my parents. If this doesn't apply to me, then I don't need to go, do I? Besides, I asked Fr. Tim about it once during my independent study and we learned that the Church only requires Confession once a year if you've committed a mortal sin. I haven't murdered anyone lately and I'm pretty sure I haven't consented to any moral failures, so technically I could have gone back to class. However, my upbringing dragged my conscience into a chair and I sat down to wait my turn.

Between the two seatings of chairs was a multi-candle holder, holding about fifty candles, lit and unlit, with a lighter underneath. Some students had lit candles for deceased parents, grandparents, or anyone for whom they had a particular special intention. I had done this type of thing before, but I had lit candles for all of my special intentions, so I did not get up to light a candle. I sat, waited, dreaded the moments to come.

Another wave of seniors came in before the juniors were called. I waited for the courage to go. It did not come. The bell for fifth hour rang. I sat. The late bell rang. Still, I sat. A list began forming in my mind of all I had to say to the priest. But my mind wandered and I had to begin again numerous times. As the list got longer, my mind wandered further. I began to think about my fellow drum majors, particularly how I treated Joe. He and I had talked about my behavior in the past three months, and I had apologized for being such a censored word. I added that to my list. Further yet, I thought of two of my closest friends, Justin and Lauren, and how much I had hurt them in the recent weeks. I hurt Justin in the worst way possible, and treated Lauren as though she was worth nothing. I added two more items to my list. The last two seniors got up to see an available priest. I took a deep breath, lifted myself from the chair, and somberly walked first to take a votive candle, then to the priest I had been eyeing for a few minutes. He had just arrived, and had yet to hear a Confession. No judgements. I wouldn't be compared to anyone.

I set the candle on the floor next to me and recited the opening prayer. My first Confession was that I didn't know when I had last confessed. I don't remember having gone last Lent or the Advent before, and I know I hadn't confessed in between. After an awkward pause, I realized the priest was waiting for me to continue. The list spilled from my mouth in a whirlwind of stuttered words and fear of embarrassment. I forgot things; I said the same things twice, three times. I couldn't look him in the eye.

He didn't even ask if i was sorry. Not even a wink of curiosity. he already knew I was. A part of my penance was to perform a random act of kindness or two. After saying my Act of Contrition, I couldn't breathe. My head bowed nearly between my shaking knees as the priest spoke the words of absolution. The final words broke me. "I absolve you from all of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

I shook the man's hand and left the confessional in tears. After returning the candle to its table for another student's use, I hobbled to my chair bawling.

I don't deserve forgiveness, I cried to my Father. Why did you give this to me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve Your forgiveness. I hurt him, Father. I hurt him deeply.

Just as I was beginning to calm down, a friend of mine came down in a group of juniors and sat at the end of my row. I tried not to be obvious about my crying, but I was shaking too hard. He slid down the row, put his arm around me, and asked if I was okay. I nodded, then burst into tears for the second time that day. But there was no point in hiding it any longer. Someone had noticed, so I let the tears come. I cried in his arms for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes. Someone gave him a pile of Kleenex for me. I was finally calmed, and he allowed himself to confess himself. He returned momentarily to pat my leg, pray, and head back to class. I sat in a solemn silence for too long. The two bells rang for sixth hour, but I didn't get up. Another friend passed my chair and asked if I was okay. I nodded with a convincing "yes." She said, "You sure? You look like you're crying." I laughed. "I'm not crying." It was the truth. She went to Confession and left the gymnasium.

Sixth hour was my religion class, and my teacher was hearing confessions so I had nowhere to go. I just sat there watching the powerpoint repeat itself over and over again. The same ten Commandments, the same eight Beatitudes, the same reflection questions. I answered each one of them to myself. The more I read, the more I answered, the more I thought.

As I left the gym, I lit a candle for him. For how much I hurt him, for how much I loved him, and for how much I wished it did have to end the way it did. That day at lunch, I bought cookies for Joe. He did a double take. I tossed them across the table to him, and he said, "Oh, thanks!" But after I said, "you're welcome," he didn't realize I actually meant it. I told him to go ahead; I bought them for him. He ate them with a smile on his face.

So if you're reading this, know that I miss your friendship. I miss the laughs we had together and even the crying we shared. I wish that things would clear up between us. But until then, there's a candle lit for you.