Page 9 of Priestly Sins
“Nice to meet you, Matt. I’m Sean. You’ve got good questions. I’d suggest you pray until God reveals the answers. Then let me know what you find out.”
He laughs again, and we conclude with the standard prayers. But after we finish, I leave the confessional to shake his hand. Unusual for me, but I appreciate his candor and his desire. He’s a former Marine and relocating to DC soon to start a new job.
“Wish you all the best, Matt.”
“Thanks, Father.” With that, he leaves. Bright sunshine haloes around him as he opens the church doors.
Later that night, I sit in my red chair — no whiskey this time — recalling the day and the other confessions I took.
There are the young children, scared every thought will send them to hell. They confess being angry or back talking parents or stealing at school. I want to remind them that they are children and inherently innocent, although it is nice to see kids with a conscience.
There are the twentysomethings whose transgressions are far beyond their younger selves. Most, we learned in the seminary, underplay their real lives, the vastness of their depravity, the heights of their cruelty. They don’t have any real sense that their lives have purpose or value.
It’s the fiftysomethings that are the most worrisome, though. Their brash, in-your-face,it’s my life and I don’t give a fuckattitude is the scariest. They confess to affairs, rape, theft, and murder, and then wait for a penance that can never atone for the irreparable damage they create in the name of self-glorification.
It is the innocent that are refreshing. The rare Catholic who truly reveres the faith and the Almighty and fervently desires to be better.
Only one today fell into this category. On a somber day, he’s a ray of hope.
The one that has me pondering, though, was the woman who came in, sat down, and silently heaved sobs until she could finally pull in lungfuls of air. After several minutes of gasps, whimpers, and deep breathing, she whispered, “Thank you,” before unlatching the door and slipping out.
Sirona Dugas has more story to tell.
Seven
I’d love to think, despite the indulgence surrounding me, that I’m a man of great self-restraint. In some ways, that’s true. In other ways, I’m simply a man whose job has specific limitations and boundaries.
But I’m a man nonetheless.
To say I hadn’t thought of Sirona Dugas after the encounter at her shop would be folly. To say I hadn’t wondered about her after her father’s funeral and her subsequent confession would just be patently untrue.
Priests don’t really make house calls, and we never follow up on confessions. How awkward would it be to have someone considered an authority figure show up and ask how life is going?How’s the gambling addiction treating you? Cheated on your wife again lately? Keeping that porn stash full?
I can scarcely think of anything more panic-inducing than having that surprise visitor.
But I’m going to do it anyway, but with a hint more grace and a lot more charm. At least, I hope.
I pull up to Petites Fleurs and quickly notice the pinwheels are gone. Breezy Louisiana springs would be perfect for them to spin, but they’re noticeably absent. Their pink pots sit empty, worn by the weather. The flower boxes on the windows have dried up soil and dead plants below their corners. Once cared for, they’re now nothing more than an afterthought.
The bells ring as I enter, but the formerly airy space feels more muted.
Sirona comes from the back and swallows hard before throwing on a small smile that looks fake to its core.
“Hello, Father. How can I help you?”
“Do you have any coffee?”
“Sure. Black?” She pauses between the words like there are tacks scraping down her throat.
“Please. May I sit?”
She looks around, confused, and then nods before turning back to the machine and pulling out a gray mug and filling it with coffee before placing it on a tray.
She brings the coffee and sets in front of me.
“Anything else?”
I gesture for the chair. Confusion passes over her face for a moment before she schools her features and scrapes the chair back and rests in it.