Full Love

-->

When the fullness of love manifests itself it cannot be diminished. It becomes its own entity, a living, driving force.

Not romantic love, but divine love, brought to life in those around us. When we are able to feel that love, see it, we can breathe it in, embrace the joy, and if we really truly get it, we can be emissaries of that love.

I met one of those emissaries and was changed forever.

She was 103 when she left this world and went to her sweet Jesus. I had only been a part of her life for the last ten years. We journeyed together – an old nun and a middle-aged chaplain. She to heaven, me to a place deeply rooted in the sure and certain knowledge of God's love.

I am not one to see divine interventions every where along our road, but I know Sister Rose was sent – an embodiment of pure grace and love – all wrapped up in a four-foot, seven-inch bundle of Jesus-driven energy.

The first day I met Sister Rose, I had been on a 16-hour on-call at the nearby trauma center. I was tired but excited to be filling in for one of the nuns at the local Catholic hospital.

When I was introduced to her she immediately pointed to a chair, told me to sit down and asked me, “So what's your story?”

I honestly doubted that this nun really wanted to hear my story which included three husbands, numerous affairs in between those husbands, three children and lots of escapades – some scandalous along the way.

Given all that, you might be wondering how I became a Catholic chaplain?

I converted back to the religion of my birth through a resignation that it was the only place spiritually where I felt at home. Profound faith in the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist keeps me there -- bitching much of the time about the bureaucracy that surrounds the beautiful presence in our tabernacles.

Chaplaincy called to me and I answered. My thinking was something like, “I survived a lot of trauma. I am still walking. Maybe I can give hope to others.”

Sister Rose came to learn my story – all of it – the everyday happenings, the parts of which I was proud – especially my three children, and the parts that filled me with shame.

She especially liked hearing about my ex-husbands. She was very direct and with regard to my second one, 25-years my senior, she would ask, “What were you thinking?”

She heard about what I thought was a miraculous third marriage to a man I loved with passion and devotion.

Sister Rose and I came to love each other. I loved her because she was brave enough to swim in all the crap with me. I guess she loved me because I was brave enough to risk telling her.

She told me her story. I always loved hearing how religious got the “call.” It started when she was seventeen. Her mother volunteered her to be the substitute housekeeper for the pastor of the local church. “I thought I was hot stuff,” she asserted. She was happy to be in charge of the money, the groceries, the meals. She loved that responsibility.

One day when it was nearing time for the absent housekeeper to return from caring for her ailing mother she went to church and asked God if he could please arrange for her to stay as housekeeper. She heard God tell her, “I have something better for you.” “Six months later I was in the convent!” she happily exclaimed .

It was that simple for this woman of God. He called, she answered. She lived her life keeping her promises of obedience, poverty and chastity with joy.

She did all sorts of things, including being in charge of the hospital's kitchen for many years. It wasn't until she was well into her seventies that she took Clinical Pastoral Education and became a chaplain.

Her style of chaplaincy was certainly like nothing I was taught in Clinical Pastoral Education.

It was all about love for that nun. She distributed Holy Communion with a humble, loving reverence that radiated from her little body. The patient would finish receiving the host then Sister Rose would say, “Thank you, Jesus. We love you, Jesus.” She meant it. She meant every word she prayed.

There was no little black book – that was how I managed to give Communion. Quickly trying to ascertain how the patient was feeling and then hurriedly going to that particular topic in the book. Pathetic really but like many Catholics the idea of extemporaneous prayer was a foreign idea – fine for those lovable, free-spirited Evangelicals, but certainly not for me. She soon taught me to pray from my heart. I couldn't even tell you where my little black book is.

We became friends. Real friends. I was one of the few people who didn't treat her differently because she was old. She liked that. I liked that she could make me feel that Jesus absolutely loved me, just as I was, broken and very imperfect.

During our time together she related a full life. Many adventures lived in the busy world of the convent. She happily shared her frailties as I shared mine.

She told of the time she was in Ohio and working on the order's farm. One of the other sisters, came rushing toward Sister Rose and her friend, planting at the time, ordering them to help hunt down an escaped cow. She was having none of that! She told her friend to keep her head down and pretend they didn't see anything.

I didn't mind how many times Sister Rose told me the same story. I understood that even if she added nothing new to the rendition, I could hear it differently each time.

Sister Rose was not much of a complainer. She learned early it wasn't thought well of in the convent. She told of going to her novice mistress with a complaint about a particularly annoying fellow novice. Her superior said, “So did she crucify you?” Sister Rose never forgot that. I must confess that I have not fully embraced that non-complaining sentiment but I'm working on it.

Sister Rose lived through much change in the church – it didn't faze her. She told me about the nun who allegedly said Mass. “That was a good one!” she asserted, thinking it was quite humorous.

She enjoyed the charismatic movement of the church and had quite a few good stories of the trips to the conferences they offered. She liked the energy.

She made her perpetual vows as Sister Deodata – meaning gift from God. A fitting name but when her order decided to give the option of changing to birth names, Sister Deodata eagerly became Sister Rose Lechner.

She was not so sure about lay ministers. I was very surprised to hear that she told another sister chaplain that if they hired a lay person she was quitting! I am glad that something kept her there journeying with me.

There was sadness in this beautiful woman's life. Living to such an old age brings grief at each passing of an old friend. Her mother was killed in an accident on her way to see her. The order's rules were onerous in the beginning of her vocation. She was kept from the family she loved. The visits with them were few. Most of the time she had nothing to say about where she went or how long she would be there.

Sacred Heart Hospital was blessed to have Sister Rose there for 53 years -- an institution at the institution!

The bedraggled, the liars, the drunks, the prostitutes, people of all states of life, flocked to Sister Rose, to be fed materially and to be loved. “God loves them,” she asserted.

The CEO at the hospital was one of Sister Rose's friends. They would talk companionably. He would tell her of the hospital's troubles. She would offer advice and support.

Age continued to haunt Sister Rose. It wasn't ill health. Her health was remarkable. She hated being put on display because she happened to be a nonagenarian. She regarded her longevity as simply not worth mentioning.

Once when she was 98 I took her to visit a priest in a nursing home. We entered the elevator with another woman who began a conversation with Sister Rose. The woman asked her how old she was. “Eighty-eight” she answered without batting an eyelash. “You look great for 88,” said the woman. It was the only time I remember Sister Rose looking smug. Later she assured me, “It was none of her business anyway.” Amen!

When anything went wrong in my life Sister Rose's answer would always be, “Let's just pray before the Blessed Sacrament.” That was a practice we never stopped in our friendship. The Blessed Sacrament always beckoned to both of us, providing warm, steady comfort in the midst of chaos.

Deep sadness descended on Sister Rose when her order called her to return to the mother house, an hour away from the hospital. Sister would sleep at the convent from Sunday through Thursday but she spent Friday and Saturday nights with the medical residents, living at the hospital. She spent much of those nights ironing altar cloths, purifiers and corporals. The hospital was her home, her place to love Jesus, her place to shine.

The first time her leaving was mentioned I got angry, very angry. Few of us at the hospital could understand why the order would bring this wound upon this good woman. She still functioned as a chaplain. The hospital was willing to make any accommodation the order felt necessary for her.

I was one of many who pleaded with the Superior. She was impatient and unyielding.

I called the superior general in Rome. Unlike the local superior, she was lovely and listened to my concerns. I don't know if that intervention had any effect but the idea of Sister Rose leaving the hospital was dropped for a year.

The time did come though -- the agony. This despite the efforts of doctors, administrators, and many other people – all begging for her to stay. This beautiful, then 97-year old nun, had to leave her beloved hospital.

There was a wonderful Mass celebrated by many priests who came to love this dynamo of a nun. Old friends came to wish her well.

She was not okay with this move and asked me if I would drive her out to the mother house for one more attempt at changing the superior's mind. I did. It was a hopeful ride. We took the long way, dotted with sheep, cows and goats. We prayed the rosary. I waited in the lobby as she put forth her arguments only to be turned down once again.

It was a very sad ride coming home. We both cried at the unflinching meanness of “Attila the Nun.”

She had many options. My nature is not one made for obedience. I offered up suggestions that in Sister Rose's mind did not meet the obedience standard, “I took vows. They are my community.”

Sister Rose never stopped loving her community, the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart. No matter how angry and hurt she was, she loved and defended them.

Sister Rose needed a carton to step into my pickup truck for the ride to the mother house to begin this new, unwanted chapter of her life. The truck was stuffed with boxes – among them one filled with green cards, with “The Miracle Prayer” printed on them – Sister Rose's favorite giveaway. Praying the rosary again, we made this trip without the benefit of happy conversation that marked most of our time together. Instead there was a companionable sadness, a distinct quiet. I couldn't talk because I didn't want to cry again. I would suspect it was the same for my friend.

Thank God there were warm faces to great her as we arrived. Nuns I grew to love over the years. They were the characters in many of Sister Rose's stories. While I am still working on forgiving the superior who wouldn't let Sister stay at the hospital, I grew to love the other sisters, well most of them.

I had promised Sister Rose to visit her as often as I could.

I kept that promise. My then-husband would accompany me, on almost every Sunday after Mass. The trips were happy ones. We would take in the beautiful scenery that graced the less-traveled route. Listening to audio books and holding hands, the time was a gift.

When asked what she did there, she would shrug, and say, “Eat, sleep and pray. What else is there?” She didn't let that become her life. Sister Rose went into action. There were many times when we would arrive and there she'd be pushing one of the residents from the assisted living section of the facility in their wheelchair. She found ways to minister to the residents, staff and other sisters.

We would come bearing goodies that we would share in the sisters' dining room. Coffee, sweets, spirited conversation with a bunch of nuns – it was my idea of a good time.

These visits continued through the years.

Every visit ended with a trip to the chapel and a prayer for us. She absolutely hated the tabernacle being off to the side. “This is his house!” she would angrily exclaim. I must admit I always thought the justification for moving the tabernacles was flawed so she got my support. She tried to have it moved. Like many things in the Catholic church, her initiative got lost in a bureaucracy that didn't welcome change – even if it was a change back to the way things were.

When Sister Rose hit her hundredth birthday, there was a festive celebration with tons of people, music, and testimonials, one of which I was honored to give. Her reply, happily delivered, was that she, “couldn't wait to meet Jesus!”

Every time a situation with my family surfaced I would tell Sister Rose. Our friendship demanded that I not become one of the people that kept things from her. She didn't want that.

She shared her disappointments also. She hurt for those around her. Sister Rose was hurt when people discounted her because of her age.

She was my biggest cheerleader. Everyone needs a Sister Rose in their life. Introducing me to the sisters, she heralded every one of my accomplishments, big or small.

Years went by and then one day I made the trip alone. I had the task of telling my friend that my husband, the love of my life, had been unfaithful and was moving back to England to be with his mistress.

We both cried that day. He was her friend too. She was a huge source of support for me in the ensuing months when I found adultery was minor in comparison to the heinous offenses that landed him in jail, probably for the rest of his life.

She told me about the time he came to visit her after we separated. “Well Carolee, there is no other woman, and it's all your fault,” she told me this laughing. Sister Rose was no dope.

Once she asserted I had a “Sears Catalog” husband. “He looked good on paper.”

When he was arrested she wanted to go see him. “He has to know that no matter what he has done, Jesus still loves him.” His betrayal was of such a magnitude that I didn't know if I could help her with this. Eventually I contacted the prison and asked that she be put on his visitors list. They never called back, I assume he was too embarrassed to see her.

Ministering to prisoners was nothing new to Sister Rose. One of her happiest moments was when a death-row inmate converted immediately before he was killed. Sister Rose had been writing to him, encouraging him to turn his life over to Jesus and ask forgiveness for his sins. She read the account of the execution in the paper and the prison chaplain reported that he acknowledged Jesus and begged forgiveness.

Her charity was real-- palpable-- and I wanted to be more like her.

Sister Rose's example inspired me to pray regularly for my ex-husband.

It wasn't until Sister Rose was 102 that she finally consented to use a walker. I was visiting with one of the other chaplains from the hospital. I had for quite some time tried to tactfully suggest that she might want to try a walker. She would give me withering looks that convinced me to drop the subject. Sister Clare took one look at her and said, “Rose, you need a walker.” Sister Clare then got one of the aides to bring her one and that was that! Her hip pain, the only health concern she ever expressed, was eased because of that walker. I was very grateful to Sister Clare for her forthright insistence.

My new found dire financial circumstances found me visiting less often. I was working four jobs and working every day. I didn't mind working but I minded not seeing Sister Rose. She was a priority. I still managed to find ways to see her fairly often but I missed the frequency I had enjoyed previously.

People would comment on how marvelous I was to be so loyal. I always pointed out that the joy was mine and that when I visited it was definitely as much for me as it was for her.

What I could count on was her love. She always was happy to see me. Our faces would light up when we saw each other. She would tell me she was ready to meet her Jesus. My only comment was, “Well you might be ready but I am not ready for you to leave,” admittedly selfish!

During the last weeks of her life she had moved to a wheelchair. While my heart was saddened for my friend, the wheelchair provided an opportunity to take her outside for a wonderful walk on a gorgeous day. Whenever we went outside she always wanted to go to the sisters' cemetery. That time was no exception. She stopped before many of the graves and prayed for her friends.

One of the last visits I had with her was when she was taken to the local Catholic hospital because she became faint. Her friend, Sister Eileen, called and told me she was admitted. I quickly went to see her. When I arrived she was sleeping. She woke, saw me and gave me a big smile and said, “Here I am lying around doing nothing!” She went back to the mother house that afternoon.

Two weeks later I got another call from Sister Eileen. Sister Rose was not doing well. They had her anointed and called in hospice.

This time I really raced. I arrived to see my friend wracked with pain but I was so glad to be there. The morphine began to work. I stayed. I prayed the rosary and prayed some more. I read to her from her Liturgy of the Hours book. I sang to her.

I prayed to St. Anthony to help her find Jesus. St Anthony was one of our favorite saints. I still have the statue of him she gave to me when she left the hospital.

I kept whispering in her ear, “Go to Jesus. He's waiting for you.”

Her sister friends could not have been kinder. They knew how special we were to each other and they honored me by allowing me to be with her. Sisters would come in and out of her room, checking on their friend who would be leaving them soon.

They told me the Friday before she became so ill she went out into the hall and thanked all the aides and nurses for taking such good care of her.

The circumstances of Sister Rose's death provided one of those rare moments in one's life when God's love comes up and washes you in its greatness. He allows you to drink it in, to revel in it, to be enveloped in his loving generosity.

Sister Rose died on the 13^th of June, the Feast of St. Anthony, with only me by her side. In a mother house steeping with nuns, God graced this very faulty woman with the beautiful gift of being the one to walk my friend home.

I will forever be grateful for witnessing, when once again, God told Sister Rose, “I have something better for you.”

Betrayal, Forgiveness and Thank You, God!

We both sat on the edge of her bed with tears streaming down our cheeks. 

 

This story began a long time ago.

 

Betrayal violently assaulted me. I had loved and along with me, that love was betrayed. The betrayal surfaced in layers, one revelation worse than the last until I felt filled with the hurt.

I am a follower of Jesus, a Christian. I say that with no pompousness or supposition that it somehow makes me holy. I am not particular holy. But I love Jesus. I have attempted to allow that love to dictate most of my middle-aged decisions. I have come to believe fully that God loves me – broken and so less-than-perfect. I am convinced he loves me anyway.

That conviction led me to fight against that betrayal. I feared that if I let my spiritual guard down for even a day the hate would overwhelm me. I didn't want that – none of me wanted that.

So I prayed – for my betrayer. I prayed a lot for him in the beginning, not as much now. Two chaplain friends helped me. I don't think I could have done it without them. They are beautiful people with open loving hearts. They knew what I was fighting. They helped me walk that very dark road. In between the prayers were sobs. I just couldn't help sobbing. You need to be brave to listen to someone's wailing. There were a lot of brave friends and family walking with me then. I will always be grateful for each and every one of them. 

 

Maybe it was my understanding of God's love for me that helped me to want to live. I knew my children needed me. I wanted to live for them but it was more than that – it was an attempt to see myself through God's eyes that kept me going. It was fall. I walked almost every day with my Saint Bernard, Winnie. We would walk along the river and through the pastures of a park nearby. They were not happy walks but something kept me putting one foot in front of the other. I kept telling myself that if I walked enough I wouldn't need anti-depressants. The beauty of the season was balm for my aching heart.

There were so many wonderful people loving me during that time. Friends still asked me for dinner even though they knew I wasn't good company. My sister welcomed me to her home. 

One day dear neighbors brought a bunch of goodies to my sister's for me -- a wonderful big pillow with pigs all over it that Kristi and her son made for me, pumpkin pancakes and a jack o' lantern. Each gift lovingly selected to make me feel better. 

It is my simplistic faith that allows me to think that's how it is with God. He loves us even at our worse.

A few months later I was again assaulted with information nobody should have to know. This time the betrayal spread. I learned I had been married to not only an adulterer, but a monster. 

 

I began the work of forgiveness again. I prayed for him. I sobbed again. This time for all the people hurt by his selfish narcissism. I still wanted to be whole. I wanted to be a woman of love and not hate. I was struggling. The horrible images of his offenses would haunt me. They would come up and never leave my stunned and shattered mind.

My loyal chaplain friends came and prayed over me. Michaelene begged Jesus to help me. Russell anointed me and prayed very specifically for those images to be gone. God answered those prayers. The night I was anointed I slept without my horrible companions prancing around in my mind. They have not returned to haunt my sleep. Thank you God!

Still, I continued to struggle with forgiveness. I could pray but I could feel no forgiveness. I could never envision saying, “I forgive you.” It was too big and too bad and just too much.

I heard about a healing retreat.  Forgiveness was one of the themes. I couldn't afford it and I needed to work.  I was working all the time by then in order to try to keep my home, still a huge source of solace.

I was praying with my friends in front of the Blessed Sacrament when Russell challenged me about why I wasn't going to the retreat. I explained that I couldn't afford it and I had to work. He whipped out three one hundred dollar bills and offered to fill in for me at my weekend job. Thank you God for wonderful friends.

So I went. 

 

A cocky priest gave a talk on forgiveness. I went to confession to him later. I said I was really struggling with forgiveness and he told me, “You just have to do it.”

I felt despair.  How could I possibly go beyond what I had done? I thought praying for him was enough but no, I had to forgive him.

One of the reasons I wanted to be at this retreat was to see one of the presenters, Kathleen McCarthy.  I had spoken to her on the phone about my situation. She had a similar experience.

It was her I wanted to talk to about this forgiveness question. She was in demand from the other retreatants.  At 12:45 in the morning, I received a life-changing gift.

I told her of my dilemma, that I prayed for this man, saying empty words but saying them anyway. Then she blew my mind.

Kathleen said, “Think about Jesus.”

But I had been thinking about Jesus.

“He was beaten, He was mocked. He was spit upon. He was stripped of his clothes. He was nailed to the cross,” she continued.

“What did he say on the cross?”

“He didn't say, 'I forgive you.' He said, 'Father, forgive them.' If Jesus couldn't do it. Why do you think you have to? Just ask our Father to forgive him, he'll take care of it. You don't have to.”

I stood there sobbing, but this time it was relief that fed my tears. The beautiful release washed over me, knowing I didn't have to try and do the impossible. I simply asked God to forgive him and that was enough.

Fast forward three years -- there I was with one of my precious psych patients. She was sobbing. She too was being asked the impossible. I was able to share the beautiful news that when we just can't will ourselves to forgive we can give it to our loving Father who will take it off our hands. Thank you God!

No Nudes

My wonderful boarder, Rachael, moved out and my finances are such that I can wait for just the right person to rent out what was her room.

I live in the house in which I was raised. I love it. Growing up my siblings – and even my parents – changed rooms on a regular basis. I had done a stint in all of the bedrooms except Rachael's.

My turn for the room came when I was still married. My ex-husband traveled a lot for his job. I wanted to surprise him with a beautiful bedroom when he got back from one of his trips. I enlisted my wonderful, long suffering friends and family to help with the transformation.

The room was painted a gorgeous cream with periwinkle blue trim. My sister, Nan, helped me to pick out window treatments that lent a warm elegance to the airy space. When done it reminded me of one of the rooms at Lubcloud Farm, my favorite bed and breakfast. An old farmhouse, nestled on an English organic dairy farm, it had a magic that invited you back to visit again and again. It made me happy when my daughter walked into the finished room and asked whether I was trying to make it look just like Lubcloud Farm – a success.

Fast forward quite a few years. I ran out of my house at the discovery of my much-loved husband's infidelity. When I moved back after staying at my sister's I couldn't bear to be in that room. My love offering, it was beautiful but I just couldn't handle it. I moved into the guest room, a happy, warm room but without the serene beauty of the “master.”

My friend Ellen talked me into rearranging the furniture. She was convinced it would change my feelings about the room. She was right. We spent an afternoon moving things in all directions. I did feel differently. She took the old bedspread off and surprised me with one that looked great in the room.

I was happy in that space. It was my room and the fact that I had given it as a gift to someone I didn't really know wasn't important anymore.  It was mine and it was comforting.

I stayed in it for months until I realized I needed desperately to rent out a room. It was the most logical one to use. Rachael arrived, another present from God. I didn't mind that beautiful woman having my room. She was a gift.

She's gone though and I decided to reclaim my room of peace and calm.

I repainted the original colors with help from my daughter. I gave Rachael some of the art work. I needed something for over the bed.

I remembered the nudes. They were done by my lover, an effervescent Italian who made bread and made love to me, making me feel beautiful for the first time in my life. He was 32 years older than me and married. I believed him when he told me that he and his wife had a celibate relationship. I still do. It doesn't take a priest or theologian though to know that it was terribly wrong anyway – I understand there are few moral absolutes but that is one of them. I get it. I was young -- 20. Tony made me feel loved, beautiful and alive. He sketched me and I was amazed at the results.

It is one of the great ironies of my life that this man was one of the main reasons I came back to the church of my birth – and with such joy.

I had married after I broke up with Tony. The marriage did not last long. There were many, many reasons for the demise. I went to my old lover, wanting to resume our relationship. The bad marriage helped me to understand all that I gave up when I said goodbye to Tony.

He was loving but firm in his refusal. He had always been Catholic but he had an epiphany and was on fire with the faith. Tony had become a Eucharistic Minister and realized that his first responsibility was to his loving God. So we stayed friends.

Immaturity and I suppose my ego contributed to my feelings of rejection and confusion. There was enough of the Catholic in me to know he was sincere. Catholicism, how old fashioned! The dogma alone was enough to kill you! Still, it was odd that I chose my father's Episcopalian faith in which to raise my two sons. It was so close to Catholicism but not quite there.

“Why I'm an Episcopalian” was the topic of an adult education course at the church I attended. What I realized was, “Holy Shit I'm a Catholic.” My lover's words and deep faith never left me. I realized I needed to go back. I needed to once again receive Holy Communion, to know Jesus in that intimate way.

I went searching for the nudes. I found them and still love them. My artist lover took a homely girl and made her beautiful. I thought of him. He died three years ago. I am convinced he is with his loving Jesus. I put the pictures on the side table and realized I will never hang them. They are anything but vulgar. I am on my side in the one, sitting on the side of the bed in the other one. It is the oddest thing. I really think I look more like that woman now than I ever did at 20. It seems like I grew into them. Maybe Tony saw something in me then that I never did, but do now.

I will not forget where he told me about his Jesus. We were in Manhattan looking over the Hudson. He had an arm on my shoulder. He was telling me what it meant to him to distribute Holy Communion, how he never wanted to jeopardize his ability to receive Jesus. I get it now, Tony.

I'll move the nudes back to the cubby hole. I'll probably pull them out in another ten years when once again I need to see myself through someone else's eyes, someone who did in fact love me and in his rejection gave me such a beautiful gift.

Here's to you Tony! Happy heaven!

Bless Me Father!

I'm running for mayor of the little borough in which I live. It is a contested race.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned!"
"Father, I am having a very difficult time keeping a Christian perspective regarding my opponent." What followed was an honest account of my feelings regarding the misogynist, arrogant, idea stealing, SOB I'm running against.
Oops. Guess I need to work on that Christian feeling bit -- just a little...
As a result of the previous part of my confession in addition to my political angst, I was given an entire rosary for my penance. I was also given beautiful, total absolution through the hands of a very generous, loving priest -- such peace!
Confession has such a bad rap. There is the whole having to say out loud just what your conscience -- ever working if you're Catholic -- has told you needs expunging. There is a reluctance to put it all out in front of another human being. The thing to keep in mind is that person can give you the peace that St. Paul tells us, "passes all understanding."
The Sacrament of Penance is actually one of the things I enjoy most about my return to Catholicism -- some 23 years ago. Since my return, thanks to some lovely priests, one in particular, I have received absolution and peace in a variety of locations from a restaurant parking lot to my personal favorite – a broom closet.
My penances have been equally varied. My favorite of all time was to leave the confessional, look at the huge crucifix hanging in the middle of the church, reflect on how much Jesus loves me and say his name. It sure and hello beat saying an entire rosary, everyday for the rest of my life – an actual penance one very angry priest gave me but thankfully later retracted by a kinder one.
There is nothing more cleansing than this most misunderstood sacrament. Think of it! Starting anew each time with a clean slate. Another opportunity to grow in the love of God. Those are not just idle words. God's love is real, through the hands of the priest it becomes palpable.
As a chaplain, peace is the thing I pray for most with my patients. Peace – think of it. You really can't get too much of it. Peace, if you're ill. Peace, if you're depressed. Peace, if you're angry. Peace, if you're lonely. Peace, if you're anxious. It's all good.
My Protestant friends, and many of my Catholic ones, tell me that a priest is not at all necessary for confession and I am happy that they can find that peace in their own way.
I really do believe that the priest is acting as Jesus and that Jesus is using that priest to bring me back closer to him. A dear friend is my usual confessor. He has known me for a very long time. He has heard quite a variety of sins from me in that time. Because he knows me he is able to give me really good counsel. I hope he would tell you that through the years I have matured – at least a little – in my faith.
Priests have seen the lines at the confessional dwindle markedly through the years. Perhaps because of that – or I would like to think – just because they are kind – most priests are very patient and helpful to the penitent. So don't let the fact that you've been away since forever keep you from trying this wonderful tool in your spiritual arsenal. Peace awaits!