I need to teach them a lesson.  To impress upon them that their grand theft of a bucket full of candy and licorice ropes from the grocery store, which they cleverly hid in a heap underneath my car in the garage, was more than just a crime for which you could go to jail.  I want them to understand that stealing is morally wrong.  It’s a sin, a mortal sin.  One of the important Commandments like murder or adultery.

If I don’t nip this behavior in the bud right now, I thought, my boys may be forever lost to a wretched life of crime and lack of moral character.  And if they go to hell or somewhere, it will be my fault.  I will have been a bad mother.

 I immediately marched them down the block to return their booty to the store and made them apologize.  They were banned from the store for two weeks.  That hardly seemed like enough punishment and they didn’t seem unhappy enough.  I want tears and a heartfelt promise that they will never again commit so heinous a crime.  So, I dragged them down the block the other way, straight to our church, Immaculate Conception.  To confession.  

The church was empty.  I went into the confessional stall first.  Just to set a good example and to give the priest a heads up of course about why we are here.  It was exactly the way I remembered—dark and hard with a breathy old man on the other side of the impenetrable screen.  I began as I was taught so long ago.  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  My last confession was ..um..um”   Jeez.  How long ago was it?  For certain it was just before I married my ex and my parents and pastor tried to extract a confession from me.  I couldn’t understand what good that would do since confession wasn’t going to make me “un pregnant.”  “I guess it’s been about eight years,” I finally whispered.  

“Whoa, did you bring your lunch?” said Father Schmidbauer, who is a favorite among parishioners, especially the kids, for saying quick masses.  “Half hour Schmidbauer,” they call him.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t really know where to begin.” 

“No problem,” he said.  “I’ll help you.”  And he proceeded to recite the rules and regs of good Catholic behavior, the big mortal and the smaller venial sins, and I responded.

“Once or twice,” I said

“No, I never do that.”

“One or two times.”

“Three or four times.”

“Never.”

“Rarely.”

“Probably.”

“Just once.”

The list of possible infractions went on and on.  Then he hit me with the big one.  “Have you had sexual relations outside the sanctity of marriage?”

Oh, crap.  I was 26 years old.  I’d been divorced for four years.  I worked hard.  I took good care of my kids.  But I was a young woman, practically reaching her peak.  I had a boyfriend and holding hands hadn’t been enough for me in a long time.

“I really don’t  know how to answer this,” I said. “ I know the Church says it’s wrong but I just don’t feel sorry.”  I hated to tell a lie in the confessional.  God knows when you’re not telling the truth.

“Do you think gluttony is wrong?” he asked.

“Eating too much?” I said.

“Yes, over indulging,” he explained.

I sought clarification.  “Well, how much is too much?” 

“Any sex outside of marriage is too much,” he said.  “It’s self-indulgent.”

Oh, brother, this was why I never liked this.  “Look,” I said.  “if I…”

“Could you hold on for a minute,” he interrupted.  “I’m in charge of lunch today and I need to check on the meat loaf.”  And he left!

I sat in stunned silence, the sounds from outside the confessional starting to leak through.  I could hear pushing and shoving and Nike’s clunking on the wooden pews.  I could hear whining, “What’s taking so long?”  I tried shushing them from inside what was beginning to feel like an upright coffin to no avail.  I had to do something.  The boys wouldn’t last much longer.  I must have been in there for thirty minutes already.  

Father Schmidbauer finally came back.  “Have you thought about it, Elaine?”

Oh my god, he knows my name!

“Are you sorry for your sins of indulgence?” he asked.

Oh to heck with it, I thought.  What could possibly happen? A bolt of lightning was not going to strike me down.  “Yes,’ I said, “but let me tell you why I’m here in the first place.  My boys stole a whole pile of candy from Kohl’s and I’m trying to impress upon them that stealing is a sin.  Please talk to them about this,” I pleaded.

“Okay,” he said.  “Go in peace and sin no more.  Your penance is six rosaries.”  A quick sign of the cross and I was free although I was going to be stuck in church for days doing that much praying.  Six rosaries was way more than the usual half of  a dozen single prayers that’s usually assigned.  This priest was tougher than I expected.  “Good,” I thought.  He’ll be sure to make an impression on the kids.

I shoved Sam, the mastermind of the crime, in the direction of the confessional.  Sixty seconds later he was kneeling in the pew with his head bowed and it was little brother Ben “the stooge’s” turn.  Thirty seconds later he was back at my side.  “Mom, how do you say ‘Hallowed Mary’s’?  I have to do two.” 

(Originally wrote circa 1997; edited 12/3/11). (told the story at an Ex Fabula story slam in 2015) (aired on realstories.mke 2/1/26 “Release” episode. https://www.wuwm.com/real-stories-mke/)