A Confession

K and J went to pre-Easter confession last week. As with every single thing when you have an infant, it was well planned well in advance.

“Yet J doesn’t speak English,” I reminded K earlier in the week, when she told me about the plan. “How exactly is this going to work?”

“Well, I’m going to translate.”

Some, when reading “This is supposed to between the priest and the individual”, might have injected, “Um, no it’s between the individual and God.” More information about the Catholic view of forgiveness can be found here.

“Do you think the priest will let you? After all, this is supposed to between the priest and the individual, and anonymous at that. That’s why there’s all the elaborate screens and confessional booths and such.” (I’ve never confessed — my imagery of it is pretty much straight out of movies, and watching from a distance.)

“We’ll see.”

What actually transpired was a somewhat amusing solution to the problem. The priest instructed K, “Tell your mother to say what she needs to say in Polish, then give me a sign that she’s finished.”

J found it both amusing and touching.

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