Retired Priest - Nancy

 Retired Priest, Mug Shot, Around the Bend

It was a cold January day with dampness  that chills you to the bone. Everyone hurried in to the church to try and find some relief from the brisk winds. The 80 year old church and it’s ancient furnace didn’t give much warm relief. 

The pomp and circumstances of Christmas was well over and dull grayness of winter had an effect on me. I had to try and keep delivering inspiring sermons each Sunday until Easter came where once again festivities would brighten the spirit. 

As I began to deliver my sermon I looked out over the  congregation and saw Doc Crawley’s head nodding as he tried to stay awake. There was Mrs. Ludwig trying to keep her 3 kids from acting up. Mr. Ludwig was not much of a church goer. He said he knew the Lord knew he loved him and he didn’t need a priest to intercede. There was Mrs. Bradley who always sat in the front row saying the rosary feverishly. She said she felt closer to God the closer she was to the altar. The congregation was aging just like the building and myself. I was performing funerals more regularly which meant the number in attendance was declining steadily. So, to see a new face sitting in the back pew by himself was quite unusual. I tried not to stare for not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable. But I was most definitely curious of who this fellow was. He was old and gray headed like the rest of the members. Probably in his 60’s or 70’s. He looked worn out and empty. 

After the service was over, I tried to rush over to say hello to this gentleman but I was caught by Mrs. Burns. “Father O’Connor” she shouted out, “won’t you please join me and Bev for dinner this evening. I’m cooking a pot roast and I’ve baked a peach pie.” I so wanted the solace of a meal to myself but said yes anyways. I would endure the town gossip between these two sisters for a home cooked meal and a slice of pie. By the time I looked up the gray headed man was gone. 

It was now Wednesday which meant it was confessional day. I opened the curtain to the booth, and sat preparing to hear the same routine confessions of judgement, gossip and unfriendliness. I was not disappointed as the sins were the same. I guess I should be glad that these people’s lives have only minor temptations. 

As I was preparing to leave after the last prayers of confession were said someone entered the booth. It was dark and the shadowy figure of a slight man was all I could see. When he spoke, it was soft and gravely. He spoke without prompting. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was over 50 years ago.” Was this the man from the back pew? “Go on my son” I said trying not to sound eager to hear what he had to say. He took a minute before speaking as if he needed to summon courage. But without taking another breath he told his story. “Father I am dying and I need to ask the Lord for forgiveness before I take my last breath. I killed a man. A boy really. I was 14 and he was 15. His name was Kenny. I was with my best friend Jimmy swimming down at the quarry like we did most every weekend. Kenny rode up acting like a big shot, mouthing off about how we were a bunch of sissies. He was especially cruel in his curses to Jimmy who was a meek shy kid. He dared us to jump off the railroad trestle. We knew how dangerous the trestle was and wanted no part of it. Somehow, we managed to worm out of the dare and hopped on our bikes and road home. Well, that’s at least what Jimmy thought I did. Once he was out of sight I turned around and went back to the trestle. Kenny was still there. He said, “well I see you do have some balls boy. Come show me what a tough guy you are and jump.” Father this guy was a bully through and through. And too many times to count he caused kids to cry with his relentless teasing and physical assaults. My best friend Jimmy was one of his favorite targets.  I guess I had enough of it. We were standing on the trestles edge when I heard the train blow its whistle. I figured it was now or never. I pushed Kenny as hard as I could. He went flying in the air and let out a scream I can still hear today. I saw him land like a pancake in the water 40 feet below. He didn’t move. The train was coming around the bend with the whistle piping its plumes of smoke. I ran fast across the railroad ties and made it to the edge of the woods just in time. To this day Father, no one knows I was there or what I did. Everyone thought it was an accident.” He finally took a breath and then said, “This sin I have carried with me has destroyed my life. But now I am dying and want forgiveness. Do you think the Lord will forgive me Father?” he asked with a whimper.

I was so mesmerized and in shock from hearing his story I was at a loss for words. I mustered up “Our Lord is a merciful and forgiving God. If you are truly sorry for your sins and ask for forgiveness the Lord will grant you peace. Go and pray from your heart the Our Father and the Apostles Creed. May the Lord lead you to confess to the police as well.  In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” I could see him through the lattice do the sign of the cross. And with that he left the booth. As I waited a minute to collect my thoughts. I heard the door to the chapel open and close. And with that the man was gone. 

I looked for him every Sunday but I was never to see him again. I thought a lot about him over the years wondering if he confessed to the police. Or if death had found him?

 Several years later, I was enjoying the comfortable life of retirement sitting in my easy chair with a glass of wine and some crackers watching Cold Case on TV. Crime stories are one of my hidden pleasures. While adjusting the volume a picture came up on the screen that looked somehow familiar. It’s wasn’t a mug shot but a rendering of a boy to an aging man. My attention peaked and I turned up the volume. The commentator told the story of a boy named Kenneth Dawson that died from falling off a trestle and breaking his neck in Chillicothe Ohio back in 1965. The siblings of Mr. Dawson were seeking answers through new found science of DNA found at the scene. They did not believe their brother accidentally fell but was pushed as they knew Kenny had a lot of enemies. With that, I spit out my crackers and nearly knocked over my  wine trying to get closer to the TV to hear more. Who are they looking for? What is his name I shouted at the TV. As if they heard me the announcer said, The police are looking for a Joseph Peterson as a person of interest. He would be around the age of 65. I was dumb founded. That was the man that came to confession. 

Swearing to the Profession of Faith requires that I never disclose what I heard in the sacrament of penance. Was Joseph still alive I wondered. If he has died, should I share what I know to the family of Kenneth Dawson to give them peace? My head was swirling with conflict. I knew in my heart the right answer. This secret that I knew must be between me, God and Joseph Peterson. I will take your confession to the grave Joseph I said out loud. May you and Kenneth Dawson both rest in peace.