Father O'Donovan admitted it; on Wednesdays, he found it hard to stay awake when he took his turn hearing confession. The busy days were Monday, when parishioners recovered and remembered the excesses of the past weekend; and Friday, when the same parishioners wanted to hedge their bets before the upcoming weekend. Wednesday's customers were usually children who had stories of some small sins their parents and teachers shamed them into confessing. That usually didn't take much time, and Father O'Donovan spent hours sitting alone in a small space that was dark, warm, and quiet.
On this Wednesday afternoon, he'd caught himself dozing occasionally. When he heard someone enter the confessional and open the screen, he had to make an effort to sit up straight.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." It was the voice of an adult male. Not one of the parishioners. This was a stranger. He waited for the rest of the formula, but the man was quiet. After a moment, O'Donovan spoke.
"How long has it been since your last confession, son?"
"I don't know, Father. It's been a long time."
Curious now, he asked, "Years, maybe?"
"Yeah, Father. Years." The man laughed a small, bitter-sounding laugh. "Don't you want to ask me why I haven't been to confession?"
"No, son. I'm only interested in why you've come today."
"I used to go to confession when I was a boy."
"Did you, now?"
"Yeah, I did. My ma always made sure I went, when the priest came through town."
"I see. When was that?"
"Not often," the man said. "There weren't a lot of Catholics in Kansas. My family kept quiet about being Catholic, because you could get in trouble just for that. I couldn't admit to being Catholic back then. I don't always admit to it nowadays."
"And now you are here today, in a confessional, a long way from Kansas."
"Yeah. A long way. And a long time."
"Is it, so?"
"Are you Irish, Father?"
"Yes, son, I am. Although I've been in this country many years now."
"You still sound Irish, though. Like my ma. She was Irish, too."
"Was she now."
"Yeah, she was." O'Donovan heard the man take some deep breaths. "She was a good woman, Father. I been thinking about her a lot lately. Thinking about what she'd say to me, if she were around."
Ah, O'Donovan thought. Here it comes. "What do you think she would say to you today?"
The man took in a shaky breath. "I think she'd be ashamed of me, for what I've done. What I've become."
"And what have you done and become?"
The voice was quieter, and shaky. "Everything she told me not to do, seems like. I point my gun at people and rob them. I break into banks, trains, businesses, and I take anything I want. And worse." The man blew his nose, loudly. O'Donovan waited for a moment.
"And what else?" He could hear the man shifting around.
"I hurt people. Somehow I get in fights, you know? Sometimes 'cause I drank too much, and wasn't thinking. And sometimes, I just get really pissed off, and I don't like what someone's saying or doing, and I make sure they know it. Or maybe to back up my friend, if he's in trouble."
"I see. And what else?"
"I'm good with a gun."
"Good with a gun, are you?" He guessed that the man was nodding. 'How good is good?"
"Never met any better. Not yet, anyway." It didn't sound like bragging to O'Donovan. Instead, it sounded sad, almost . . . regretful? Maybe that was the real reason for his coming to confession today.
"How do you know that, son?"
"No one's beat me. Ever."
"So you've been in gunfights." No answer. O'Donovan thought the man was nodding again. "And what happened then?"
Another deep, shaky breath. "I've killed men, Father. Never been arrested for it, though. Never murdered someone outright, you know? I mean, murder like, I woke up in the morning and said to myself, today I'm going find this man and when I find him, I'm going to shoot him dead. It was always a fair fight. . . well, it looked fair enough. When you know you can beat just about anyone, it probably ain't fair to get in a fight in the first place. Like I said, no one's beat me yet."
Another pause. O'Donovan gave the man a moment to regain his composure.
"But something happened."
"Yeah. Some idiot recognized me. But he didn't go to the sheriff. He decided he wanted to be known as the man who beat me. He pushed me into a fight; I shot him in the forearm before he could fire."
"That sounds like a reasonable way out of causing further damage, son."
"I thought so, too, Father. If I have to shoot, I aim to just cause a little damage like that. I've learned to just wing 'em and get out of town fast as I can."
"I see. But something happened?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I found out a couple weeks later. The wound turned septic. Doc amputated his arm, but it was too late. He died. He was a widower with six kids. No one family could afford to take all six kids. They're all split up now, some to different families, and a couple to an orphanage. And all because I got a reputation." The man sounded almost distraught to O'Donovan.
"What did you want to tell me about your mother?"
The man blew his nose, loudly. "I been thinking about something she used to say when she got an idea. She'd say, 'I have had an epiphany!' I can hear her saying that, plain as if she was standing next to me."
"And now you've had an epiphany, have you?"
The sound of nodding again, and the quiet voice. "Yeah, Father. I have. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want this life anymore. I want to make my mother proud, not shame her."
"Your mother in Heaven loves you, son. She can do no other; you are now and always will be her child." The man was crying softly.
"What do you want from me, my son?"
The man spoke through choking tears. "Can God ever forgive me for what I've done?"
Now it was O'Donovan's turn to nod. "God's love and forgiveness are eternal. There is nothing, nothing, for which you cannot be forgiven when you are truly repentant. Do you repent, son?"
"I do, Father. I don't want to live like this anymore. Me and my partner, we're going straight. We both want to make our ma's proud of us. But I can't undo what I done. I mean, the men I've killed, they ain't coming back to life because I went straight. And we can't return the money we stole, or repair people's lives that got ruined because of us. All we can do is not do any of that from now on."
"And that is repentance, my son. God asks that you go forth and sin no more. That's all."
"That's all?" O'Donovan thought he heard a reluctant smile in the man's voice. "You make it sound easy.
"That's all, son. That's everything. And it's not easy. But it is the thing which you must do. Not to earn God's love; you always have that. But to learn to respect yourself."
"My folks always told me I had to confess things I did wrong and accept the consequences to be forgiven. If I did that with the law, they'd put me away for 20 years, Father. I'm not ready to do that. I don't think I'll ever be ready for that."
"I can only tell you about God's forgiveness, and that is always available to you. Man's laws, well, sometimes they require different things."
"Me and my partner, we heard the Governor's offering amnesties. That'd wipe our records clean, and we could leave our old lives behind. Live like our folks would want us to. Make them proud of us at last."
"Ah. I will pray for you and your partner, son."
"Thank you, Father. That means a lot to me."
"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good."
"And his mercy endures forever. At least, that's what I heard when I was a boy."
"It's as true now as it was then. Make the sign of the cross with me, son. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."
"Father. Aren't you going to make me say a bunch of Our Fathers and Hail Marys? Or say the rosary?"
"No, I am not. I want you to do something much harder. I am going to require you to follow the urges of your soul, and to live your life as an honest man from this day forward. And to pray for me, son. Pray for me."
"Thank you, Father. I will. And I'll pray for you, too, if you really want me to." O'Donovan heard the floor creak as the man stood up.
"I do, as I will pray for you to know God's grace and forgiveness. Go in peace, my son. And sin no more." The screen closed. The man's boots clicked on the wooden floor and receded as he walked away.
Father O'Donovan pulled the battered watch out of his pocket. Almost 5:00pm. Time for vespers. Good. He had a lot to discuss with God tonight.