The Empty Jar(25)

Hours later, as we come back through the nave, we reach the area at the south transept cordoned off for those seeking to make confession. Nate squeezes my fingers and whispers, “Let me find the bathrooms before we head over to the Sistine Chapel, k?” He kisses my temple and starts off in the opposite direction. “Be back in a few.”

I nod, perfectly content to just…be. I turn a slow circle, once more taking in the glorious sights laid out before me. I glance at every sculpture, absorb every sound, and commit every detail of Bernini’s Baldachin, arching protectively over the altar, to memory before I make my way toward the velvet ropes that protect those who come to confess from the foot traffic of those who come only to look.

Impulsively, I walk around to a divide in the barrier and head to the first row of seats. I slide through the aisle to a chair in the middle. None of the others are occupied, which I find odd since there had been many people sitting here when we’d passed through the first time, earlier. I glance quickly left and right, at the confessionals sprinkled along each wall, to make sure I’m not going to be evicted. I feel as though I’m wearing my non-Catholic status like a robe, brazenly, for all to see.

When I’m certain I’m not offending anyone (there seems to be no one around to offend), I relax and focus on the painting inset into the wall at the end of the transept. It depicts a grown Jesus holding a child in His arms. I feel a stab of envy. And fear. And something I can’t readily identify.

Tears mist my eyes as I take in the scene.

A gentle voice from near my right shoulder startles me.

“Are you enjoying your tour?”

My head whips around, and I see an older man, a priest standing beside me, two chairs down. He is dressed in the traditional holy vestments, black soutane with thirty-three buttons down the front. Upon his head is a shock of short, graying hair. His eyes are a brilliant blue, and his hands are clasped in front of him as though he has all the time in the world.

And he is taking a minute of it to speak to me.

I nod, recovering quickly. “Oh yes! Very much. It’s an incredible place.”

The priest’s serene smile widens, and his head bobs once. “Very good.” His voice is soft and lightly accented, and he has a placid quality that surrounds him like a calming cloud. I feel immediately at ease and wonder if all men of the cloth have such a soothing presence about them. “Are you here to give confession?” He raises a hand to indicate one of the many free-standing confessionals dotting the wall to my left.

“Oh, no. I’m not Catholic.”

Blue eyes steadily search my face. The way he watches me would’ve made me squirm had it been anyone else, but today, with this man, I sit perfectly still and hold his gaze.

For some reason, I don’t feel guilty or out of place. I don’t feel ashamed or condemned. I don’t feel wrong or unworthy. Somehow, I just feel…comforted by the way it seems he can see right through me, see right into me and not judge me for what I’m hiding.

“You might not be Catholic, but you are in need just the same.”

It’s an observation not a question. A statement of fact. Like he knows.

Like he knows.

“How—” I was going to ask how he knew, but I don’t. I don’t need to. Something deep within me feels the answer.

Something within me knows.

“Come. Let us seek the privacy of the confessional,” he says, once more indicating the wooden booths behind us.

“Can we do that since I’m not a Catholic?”

“You don’t have to be Catholic to confess your sins; you only have to be a sinner, as we all are. Or troubled and in need of guidance, as we all can be from time to time.”

I don’t question what makes me rise from my seat and turn to walk through the row toward the first confessional. I merely give in to the overwhelming need within me, the need to share my burden with another person.

Maybe there really is a God.

And maybe He really does listen to the soul.

I stop in front of the box. Despite its friendly label that declares it appropriate for those who spoke English, I’m still intimidated. The large wooden structure is stained a rich mahogany and, as with every other centimeter of the church, no detail has been spared. It’s beautiful in an artistic as well as in a meaningful way.

I turn to ask the priest what I’m supposed to do next, but he’s gone. I look around, wondering if I missed him going in another direction, but within a minute, I hear a muffled voice from somewhere inside the booth bid me to, “Come. Kneel.”

I approach the opening. The interior is dark and smells of timber and varnish mingled with a subtle tang I can’t quite describe. I imagine it is decades of misery and forgiveness carried on hot breath and held carefully within the grain of the wood. They linger here,like remembered promises.

After my eyes adjust, I can see where I’m supposed to kneel and where my elbows are supposed to go, placing me in the pose of someone praying. Once I’m in position, I clasp my hands and drop my forehead onto my interlocked fingers. “What do I do?” I murmur.

“Tell me what’s on your heart,” the priest’s disembodied voice answers.

“Do I tell you that I’ve sinned?”

“Have you?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“We have all sinned. We do so daily. That’s why confession is so important. We need forgiveness. We need it from our God, and we need it for ourselves.”