Over a year and a half ago, I sat in the car longer than I needed to.
Which is how I learned that fear can wear a seatbelt.
The engine was off.
My hands were still on the wheel.
Like at any moment I might need to escape a situation I had voluntarily driven myself to.
It had been 39 years.
Thirty-nine.
At that point, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was going to confession or turning myself in.
Naturally, I had prepared.
And by “prepared,” I mean I tried to remember every questionable thing I had done since approximately the Reagan administration.
This sounds virtuous until you actually attempt it.
Somewhere around year seventeen, your brain starts opening files you didn’t even know were still in storage.
Oh, remember this?
No.
Great. Here it is in 4K.
Little things.
Big things.
Things I had forgotten.
Things I had conveniently renamed.
Because human beings are excellent at rebranding.
Anger becomes “having boundaries.”
Jealousy becomes “just noticing.”
Pride becomes “knowing my worth.”
And holding a grudge for twelve years becomes “I’ve moved on, I just don’t want them to experience joy.”
Eventually, though, I stopped seeing a list.
I saw a life.
The times I didn’t say the kind thing I could have said.
The moments envy showed up dressed as comparison.
The anger I carried toward people I loved…and people I decidedly did not.
The constant wanting.
More recognition.
More approval.
More stuff.
More anything that might fill something in me I couldn’t quite name.
And then there were the serious things.
The things I won’t share with the world.
But I knew I would have to say them in there.
That’s when the fear changed.
I wasn’t afraid I’d forget something.
I was afraid I wouldn’t.
Because eventually every explanation runs out of road and you’re left with three uncomfortable words:
I did it.
Every shortcut.
Every rationalization.
Every version of myself that chose what was easier instead of what was right.
There is something deeply unsettling about sitting alone in a parked car and realizing the person you’ve spent your entire life defending is about to be introduced honestly.
I considered leaving.
Briefly.
And by briefly, I mean long enough that several people probably assumed I was waiting for someone.
I adjusted my jacket.
Checked my phone.
Checked it again, apparently expecting breaking news that confession had been canceled.
I even considered whether God might accept a well-written apology from the driver’s seat.
Something tasteful.
Maybe double-spaced.
Strong conclusion.
He did not.
So I walked in.
Not confidently.
Not spiritually prepared.
More like a man entering a meeting where he is fairly certain his entire past is already seated around the conference table.
The church was quiet.
Too quiet.
Like it knew why I was there.
I sat down.
Then stood up.
Then sat down again because apparently even my body had forgotten how Catholicism worked.
Eventually, it was my turn.
I walked in.
Sat down.
And opened with the only honest thing I had:
“It’s been…about 39 years.”
Which felt less like beginning a confession and more like opening a time capsule nobody had requested.
I expected a reaction.
A pause.
A sigh.
Maybe the priest glancing toward the door to see whether reinforcements were available.
Nothing.
Just calm.
Steady.
Unshaken.
Almost annoyingly unsurprised.
So I started.
Not perfectly.
Not chronologically.
Certainly not alphabetically.
Just honestly.
And somewhere between the things I was most ashamed to say and the things I almost skipped, something strange happened.
I didn’t feel exposed.
I felt seen.
Not in the way that makes you want to hide.
In the way that suddenly makes hiding seem exhausting.
I expected judgment.
I got gentleness.
And strangely, gentleness was harder to receive.
Because judgment makes sense.
You do something wrong.
Someone points at it.
You feel terrible.
Very efficient system.
Mercy?
Mercy takes a minute.
When it was over, nothing dramatic happened.
No beam of heavenly light came through the ceiling.
No choir appeared.
I did not walk outside with better posture, clearer skin, and an immediate understanding of Leviticus.
I was still me.
But lighter.
Not because everything was fixed.
Because something had finally been faced.
For 39 years, I avoided that room.
Avoided that moment.
Avoided that level of honesty.
Then I walked in once.
Now I try to go every month.
Not because I’ve mastered anything.
Trust me, there continues to be material.
I still hesitate sometimes.
Still hear that little voice:
Do we really need to mention that?
Yes.
Even that part?
Especially that part.
Because I learned something in that little room I had avoided for nearly four decades.
The hardest part was never what I had done.
The hardest part was bringing it into the light.
And discovering it didn’t destroy me.
Especially during Holy Week, I keep thinking about that.
Maybe we spend too much of our lives believing God is waiting on the other side of honesty with a clipboard.
Arms crossed.
Reading glasses halfway down His nose.
Well, well, well…look who finally showed up.
I did.
For 39 years.
But maybe faith isn't about arriving cleaned up enough to be seen.
Maybe it's finally allowing yourself to be seen before you've cleaned everything up.
So walk in anyway.
Say the thing.
Tell the truth you’ve been editing.
Bring the part of yourself you keep cropping out of the picture.
Because sometimes the thing we’re most afraid to bring into the light
is the very thing keeping us in the dark.
I spent 39 years afraid of what would be waiting for me in that room.
Judgment.
Shame.
Maybe disappointment.
I finally opened the door.
And discovered something I wish I had known decades earlier.
Mercy was already in the room.
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