Bless Me, Father

Bless Me, Father Two minutes more, Father Paul, and you will hear another of my strange confessions. Right now, I'm outside watching the rain on my glasses running in rills. When I make it to the church, I'll confess the usual stuff with a few variations, the same plot, the same ploys, the same frenetic tale I have always to tell. Next week, however, things will be different. Next week, I won't make a list in the diner across from St. Peter's. The waitress there knows me too well. Last week she asked, "Am I on your list?" "Not a chance," I said. "What time do you get off from work?" "5 o'clock," she said. "I'll be back," I said, "and we can go to St. Peter's and make the Stations of the Cross." Father Paul, you can see that I'm trying to bring women to the Lord. So next week, no list. I'll sit in the diner and swig on a milkshake instead. When I come into your box, I'll fall on the kneeler and whisper through the grille, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I did the same stuff this week that I did last week but this week I did it more often." Father Paul, if I quit making lists, this whole process will be easier on both of us. Who wants to hear a grown man recite forever what Yogi Berra called deja vu all over again? Donal Mahoney