"Sofia, don't do this." Fr. Robert gently chided her. "I am a priest. And this is a house of God." The air in the confessional box was suddenly getting warm and the priest was beginning to feel uncomfortable, sweaty, and claustrophobic. A feeling of an invading disaster, an impending doom, engulfed him.
"Father, I am merely trying to make a confession. I am just telling you how I feel."
He unconsciously nodded his head, a habit he inherited from his mentor, a priestly gesture that gives an impression of benign paternal wisdom, an impression of understanding rather than approval. "It's wrong and you know it."
"I can't help it."
He nodded again, "Yes, you can. But I do understand your situation. My child, loneliness is a terrible burden. You are searching for someone to take your husband's place. I cannot be that someone. I am happily married. To Christ. How do you think Russell would feel?"
"Wherever he is, Russell will understand. He is dead and I'm alive."
"Through the grace of God."
"Oh, Father, you are not listening to me! I can't help feeling this way about you."
"I am listening to you. It will pass."
"No, it won't." Sofia was getting upset, frustration resonating in her voice. "I know you know how I feel about you. I can tell by the way you look at me."
"What?"
"The way you look at me."
"My child, this is a confessional. You are bordering on sacrilege."
"Please hear me out. I can't help how I think. I can't help how I feel. I want to let you know."
"You must stop this. It is not right and it is not proper. I am a priest."
"You're human. As I am."
Fr. Robert was beginning to think that he was losing control of the situation. Curtly, "Is there anything else you want to confess?"
She disregarded the tone of his voice. "No. But is what I am feeling a sin?"
Fr. Robert did not hesitate. "Yes, it is."
"Then I am confessing this sin. Botoy, please give me an absolution."
Surprised to be addressed by his pet name in a church, he almost stuttered. "I will, b...b.....but you must say the Act of Contrition."
Fr. Robert waited for the words. A few seconds passed before she answered back, "I can't...because I don't think I can stop feeling this way."
She stood up from her kneeling position, got out of the confessional box and left quietly through the church side door without dipping her finger into the holy water font or making the sign of the cross. One of the teen-agers took her place.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned. My last confession was..." Fr. Robert was not paying attention to the young girl. His mind was somewhere else.
It took two more hours to hear all the confessions. So many chose him because he always sounded sincere and understanding. Besides, the prayers that he would prescribe were usually only one "Lord's Prayer" and one "Hail Mary" while the older priest would have the penitent say the Rosary for three days, irrespective of the gravity of the infractions.
He was exhausted and he was hungry by the time he heard his last confession. He hurriedly got up, took off the purple stole that he wore while performing the Sacrament of Penance, and walked briskly to his quarters in the convent.
His bladder was full but before he could get to his room, the young sacristan intercepted him in the hallway, handing him a perfumed envelope with no return address.
"Padre, Nang Sofia asked me to give you this," the conspiring twelve- year-old whispered like a secret British agent, while smiling impertinently.
Fr. Robert stared at the envelope in his hand for a second or so, stuffed it into his side pocket, turned away from the boy, and hurriedly went to his room, directly to the CR and relieved himself. He immediately fell to his knees, and unmindful of the fact that he was facing the toilet and while grasping the rim of the toilet bowl, he looked up the ceiling in agony and cried softly out, "Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.."
Mathew 26:42
Luke 22:42
Mark 14:36
The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
Featured Image: Route 6 Iowa