CONFESSION AND GOD'S LOVE

--By Shannon Gill

The Catholic church we attend in our bucolic Midwestern town is simply charming. Its tall white steeple can be seen from nearly anywhere in town, from the old post office that is now a cookie shop or from the wide open fields behind the elementary school. Outside the red brick church stands a grove of trees, a side yard that acts as home to the annual Easter egg hunt, some benches, and a cement statue of an angel dedicating prayers to the victims of abortion. Inside, the narrow chapel fills to standing-room-only capacity at two out of four Masses every weekend. Sun streaming through the tall stained glass windows makes it feel warm inside, even when the harsh winters and dreary springs make life a little unbearable in this part of the country.

We started coming here about five years ago when we moved from the East coast. The church is typical of many Midwestern Catholic churches: It is more socially and politically liberal than many on the East Coast, making my husband and I feel more at home here than we had at any of the churches we grew up in. There are greeters at the door every Sunday, and it is rare to go to church and not have a complete stranger strike up a conversation before Mass.

When, in the middle of Mass, we all turn to shake hands and give each other the sign of peace (just like hippies once did), this church feels like home. But there was a time when we first arrived, stretching weeks and almost a year, when I would wonder, "Would this person think I am a murderer?"

* * * * *

I was nineteen when I found out I was pregnant. It was a terrible time. I was old enough to have avoided the situation in the first place, but too immature to weigh the consequences of my actions. I lived in fear that my parents would find out. Even as a college student, when I was living on my own and pretending to be a grown up, my parents' opinion of me loomed over everything I did. Still today, I can't imagine how painful it would have been to tell my father, who died more than 10 years ago. I feared I would melt into the floor if he lost respect for me.

And so, I had an abortion. The procedure was simple and clinical. The physical effects lasted just a couple of weeks. But the emotional, psychological impact lasted far longer.

If I had stopped at any point and thought about anything else besides keeping my parents happy, I may have realized that I didn't really believe I was doing the right thing for me. But I went through with it anyway. It was like stepping off a diving board into an ice cold pool -- I held my breath and jumped, and ignored the voice that was screaming at me to stop.

I should be clear here, though, that this is not an anti-abortion essay. I am pro-choice, and do not believe that that right should be taken away from any woman in this country. For me, though, I should have at least given some serious thought to my other options.

In the following months, I hit a low in my faith in myself and my faith in God. I defiantly declared that I did not believe in God. That he was a figment of our collective imaginations, a non entity. That when we die, there was nothing. Just blackness. And emptiness.

It was a chilling, hollow way to live. As I would say these words to people, I often could not control my tears. I would not sob or get choked up, but I would find that suddenly there were tears streaming out of my eyes. I don't think I convinced many people of my atheism.

I won't get into the details of how I found my way back. It's nothing revolutionary, and I still struggle from occasional periods of doubt and disbelief. It was a slow process, and I can't say I buy all that the Church is selling. But I'm there, more often than not. And it's a good thing.

* * * * *

One Saturday afternoon, as we were attempting to conceive our second child, I found myself for the first time ever sitting in a hard wooden pew in our new church, waiting for my turn in the confessional booth. My husband had encouraged me to go, saying I would leave there feeling good. He had gone himself just a few weeks earlier. I had told him years ago about the pregnancy and abortion, but I was talking about it much more since we started trying to have another baby. Our first child had been a happy surprise, so this was the first time we were actually trying to conceive. It was throwing me off kilter. The process was taking longer than expected, and I feared I was being punished.

My only experience with confession was years earlier, when I was just eight years old. It was silly, honestly. I had to confess before I could make my first communion, but I didn't get it. I have no idea what major life sins I had committed. I mean, what kind of grave sins was I committing in third grade? Later in the year, I spent some time attending school with my cousins in Ireland. There, confession was solicited every Wednesday in school. A priest came into class and set up in the front of the room. Students gave confession near the blackboard while everyone else sat at their desks working on math problems. When my turn came, I could see all eyes watch me, the new American kid, walk up to the front. It was paralyzing. I refused to admit to any wrongdoings.

"Did you lie to your parents?" the priest suggested after I admitted I had been essentially a perfect kid for the past week.
"Nope." It was true -- my parents were in the states, so it would have been tough to lie to them.
"Were you mean to your sister or brother? Did you steal? Did you lie to anyone?"
"Nope," I said with a shrug. "Can I go now?"
The priest wouldn't let me leave until I confessed to at least one thing, so I picked being mean to my sister as my big confession. It was silly. She was back in America, and thus immune to my apparently appalling nasty side. I guess I could have confessed to lying to a priest, but I was too concerned with getting out of there. At least my feeble confession got me back to my desk, where I blushed and sat with my head on the desk for the next half hour.

This time I had chosen to go to confession, so there was no turning back. My insides were churning and flipping, and my fingers felt tingly. I had to breathe deeply to keep myself rooted in the seat.

When my turn came, I felt like I was about to dive back into that icy cold pool. The voice screaming "Run away from here!" was subdued, a bit, by my husband's promise that I would feel better.

I opened the door and walked into a little room. I was surprised to see our priest sitting there, in the open, waiting. The room was lit by a sunny yellow lamp. As I sat down, knee-to-knee with our priest, I could feel myself trembling.

My inexperience must have been writ large on my face, because he handed me a small prayer card and asked me to read it aloud. I don't remember exactly what it said, but I remember feeling strange that I had to read it. I felt like it was something I should know. (Although apparently I am not the only one who doesn't know all the Catholic prayers. The card was laminated and had its own special wooden holder on the wall.)

And then, I just said it. I laid it out for him -- that for more than 10 years, I was carrying around the gigantic load of a secret, this terrible crime I had committed. My throat was tight, my eyes were wet, and I stared at my knuckles, which were turning white as I squeezed my hands tight. I couldn't believe I had just said it. Spoken the truth about this thing I regreted and wished I could undo. I was waiting for his shocked reaction. A scolding. Some sort of yelled speech on my general awfulness.

And then: Nothing.

There was a long pause for a moment. And then two moments. It stretched on longer than I felt comfortable with, so I looked up.

"And what else?" he said, looking at me patiently.

What else?!? Didn't he just hear what I said?

"Uh, what else?" I said, looking at him quizzically.

"Yes, what else do you have to confess?"

I was back to feeling like that eight year old, with nothing to say. I scrambled around in my head for a minute, and said something about not being patient enough with my husband or daughter. "I thought the whole abortion thing would be a big enough deal," I admitted. "I didn't really prepare anything else."

He told me it was OK, that God could see into my heart and know the things I felt sorry for. And then he asked me to bow my head. He placed his hand on my forehead, and prayed for me. There was something about that touch, the pressure on my forehead, that felt like a valve had been opened and my guilt was floating up into the air. It only took a minute, but it was such a relief. I cried, again, but this time it was different.

I went back out into the pews and knelt to pray. Amazingly, for the first time in more than a decade, I felt forgiven. I had not been able to forgive myself, and yet I felt as if God had forgiven me. I felt lighter inside. I felt at peace with what I had done. Confession, a part of the Catholic tradition that I had long rejected, was the one and only thing that helped ease the guilt I was carrying around like ten-pound weights on my shoulders.

* * * * *

I attend church semi-regularly these days, and I've been going to this church so long that I am no longer bothered by the angel statue out front anymore. We are moving to a new church this year, and I am part of a small, quiet group of women who would like the statue to stay behind. We are challenged by the fact that abortion is very taboo in church, so how do we talk about how the statue makes us feel unwelcome without exposing our own pasts?

I have been back to confession only twice since that day five years ago. Once right before I made my long-overdue confirmation, and once when I was on a business trip in Manhattan right before Easter at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Neither were as personal or uplifting as the first time. St. Patrick's was the most clinical and cold.

I will go back again. My daughter is making her first communion this year, and I will likely make confession with her when she does it for the first time. I want her to know the deeper meaning of it; that confession is for talking about things that stand in the way of your relationship with God. That it's good for helping you feel forgiven even if you can't forgive yourself.

If nothing else, I hope she feels how unconditional God's love is.

It took a long time for me, but I get it now.

--Shannon Gill is a full-time writer living in Michigan.

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