Anger in the Ruins (Part II)

Getting un-pissed, or at least un-poisoned.

Today’s piece is a continuation of Anger in the Ruins (Part I).

In the front row of the church, notebook open, I scribbled sins across the page in red ink. When I began my list, I’d been alone. Now, a stream of people trickled in from the back and sides of the sanctuary, people like me who had left their office desks, their coffee shops, their nightly meal prep to attend the parish’s lenten confession service. There, eight priests would tuck themselves into the nooks and crannies of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church and bear the weight of our parish’s sin.

A priest entered, stage left—shortish, lean, a quick staccato stride—and he made his way to the sacristy, stage right. This was, evidently, my confessor because the arrow at the end of my pew pointed directly to the sacristy. This was the man whose sole task in the moment was to unburden souls. And because I was at the side closest to the sacristy, his first task was to unburden my soul. At least, that’s the way he saw it.