First Confession was published in the Seasoned Reader (55 Plus News), Oct. 2007 issue, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Seven years old and the age of accountability had arrived. If death struck and had a mortal sin on my soul, I would go to hell and burn
forever. The nuns and the priest had prepared me for redemption—first confession and communion. I was to confess: disobedience,
lies, unclean thoughts, bad acts, swear words, gluttony, dishonesty, stealing, disrespect toward elders, and any behavior that had
broken God’s and the Church’s commandments.
The moment came. I did not know how to behave while I waited. In the pew, I sat still like all the others who appeared at ease before
delivering their misdeeds to Père Sévère for the first time.
A damp chill filled the sanctuary.
The boys and girls who went in before me seemed to stay a long time behind the dark glass door. What could the confessor be telling
them, asking them? What if I need to pee? Darn it! The thought gave me the urge. The more I thought about it, the more I needed to
go.
My turn came. I went in and closed the door. Somber silence trapped me. I knelt in the dim light and could not hold my bladder. I wet
my pants. I wondered if the priest would smell it.
The small window slid open. A silhouette appeared. Père Sévère’s face emerged close to the screened opening. My urinary track
tightened. The rehearsed words had slipped my mind. I was sure the priest could hear my pounding heart.
He asked if I had anything to confess. I mumbled a “No.”
Père Sévère peered at me over his rimless glasses and asked if this was my first time. I said that it was. “I lied a few times.”
He told me to recite an Act of Contrition, and then I’d be ready to receive holy communion. Père Sévère gave me the Absolution
while he made the sign of the cross, and slid the small window shut.
I stepped out and went to the back pew of the other wing of the church, away from everyone. I knelt and completed my penance.
Could I sin again, after I received communion?
Instead of going home along the main road, I decided to run across the backfields by the old dump, around the pond and to my house.
My experience at the confessional had evaporated. I sat in a rusted Model T-Ford and pretended to drive. The old frame tilted toward
the driver’s side. I stepped out and tried to close the squeaky door. With one hand on the open window rest and my left hand on the
hinge edge, I pushed. The metal scratched, scraped, and squeaked, but would not close. I pushed harder. The door slammed shut. I
felt a sting run up my left hand. The door had clipped the tip of my index finger. Raw flesh and bone stuck out. Bloody finger pointing
up, I ran toward the creek, jumped over the brook, up the hill, around the pond, and picked up pace as I crossed the field to my house.
Was this my punishment for not telling Père Sévère all my sins?
At home, my mother wrapped the wound and said I would have to see Docteur Généreux. I told her about my experience in the
confessional.
“You should have gone before going to church,” she said.
I told her that I hadn’t needed to go. She sent me upstairs to change.
Late that afternoon, I went back to the dump, found the fingertip, brought it home, and showed it to my mother. “Yeeek!” She
opened the stove cover and had me throw it in the fire. I looked at the flame, heard the flesh sizzle, and an unfamiliar odor rose. The
sound and smell of hell, I thought.
Soon after that experience, I became an altar boy.
Seven years old and the age of accountability had arrived. If death struck and had a mortal sin on my soul, I would go to hell and burn
forever. The nuns and the priest had prepared me for redemption—first confession and communion. I was to confess: disobedience,
lies, unclean thoughts, bad acts, swear words, gluttony, dishonesty, stealing, disrespect toward elders, and any behavior that had
broken God’s and the Church’s commandments.
The moment came. I did not know how to behave while I waited. In the pew, I sat still like all the others who appeared at ease before
delivering their misdeeds to Père Sévère for the first time.
A damp chill filled the sanctuary.
The boys and girls who went in before me seemed to stay a long time behind the dark glass door. What could the confessor be telling
them, asking them? What if I need to pee? Darn it! The thought gave me the urge. The more I thought about it, the more I needed to
go.
My turn came. I went in and closed the door. Somber silence trapped me. I knelt in the dim light and could not hold my bladder. I wet
my pants. I wondered if the priest would smell it.
The small window slid open. A silhouette appeared. Père Sévère’s face emerged close to the screened opening. My urinary track
tightened. The rehearsed words had slipped my mind. I was sure the priest could hear my pounding heart.
He asked if I had anything to confess. I mumbled a “No.”
Père Sévère peered at me over his rimless glasses and asked if this was my first time. I said that it was. “I lied a few times.”
He told me to recite an Act of Contrition, and then I’d be ready to receive holy communion. Père Sévère gave me the Absolution
while he made the sign of the cross, and slid the small window shut.
I stepped out and went to the back pew of the other wing of the church, away from everyone. I knelt and completed my penance.
Could I sin again, after I received communion?
Instead of going home along the main road, I decided to run across the backfields by the old dump, around the pond and to my house.
My experience at the confessional had evaporated. I sat in a rusted Model T-Ford and pretended to drive. The old frame tilted toward
the driver’s side. I stepped out and tried to close the squeaky door. With one hand on the open window rest and my left hand on the
hinge edge, I pushed. The metal scratched, scraped, and squeaked, but would not close. I pushed harder. The door slammed shut. I
felt a sting run up my left hand. The door had clipped the tip of my index finger. Raw flesh and bone stuck out. Bloody finger pointing
up, I ran toward the creek, jumped over the brook, up the hill, around the pond, and picked up pace as I crossed the field to my house.
Was this my punishment for not telling Père Sévère all my sins?
At home, my mother wrapped the wound and said I would have to see Docteur Généreux. I told her about my experience in the
confessional.
“You should have gone before going to church,” she said.
I told her that I hadn’t needed to go. She sent me upstairs to change.
Late that afternoon, I went back to the dump, found the fingertip, brought it home, and showed it to my mother. “Yeeek!” She
opened the stove cover and had me throw it in the fire. I looked at the flame, heard the flesh sizzle, and an unfamiliar odor rose. The
sound and smell of hell, I thought.
Soon after that experience, I became an altar boy.
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First Confession
by
Bill Boudreau
by
Bill Boudreau
| ~ Other Shore ~ |