Coming Home

At 4:15, the church was dark. Only sunlight filtering through stained glass lit the place, and no one was there. No one. The confessional door was open, and our voices carried a little too easily in the unlit sanctuary.

Are you sure you’re alright? Yes, I’m alright. I’ll wait until you come out. Okay.

A man in pants and a dress shirt looked up at me over his book. Wh--who are you? Oh, a priest. Oh, right. Relief. Embarrassment. Hi, I'm Melissa. Crap. Crap. He wasn't supposed to know my name. His was Fr. Bruni. I told him I was terrified. I told him it's been a long time. It was okay. It would be okay. Sit down. Talk a little.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen...

Show time. The beginning came easily. It always did. These are my sins:

And then I stopped, the words caught in my throat, and almost thought I couldn't start again, until he reassured me, trying to calm my nerves. Slowly over the next fifteen minutes, it all came out with shaking and whispers and talking more to the wall than the priest.

All I could do after the absolution was sigh, and finally make eye contact.

Feel better?

I beamed.

Welcome home, Melissa.

I said goodbye to my mother, who had waited for me, and took to very slowly tracing the perimeter of the back of the church. I found rosary beads and, still mostly alone, began to pray in silence before the Crucifix.

The overwhelming mercy, love, and relief that hit me was enough to move me to tears of the joyful variety. I knew then that this was where I had belonged all along.

It was so good to be home.