I spent the glorious Saturdays of my youth in the Catholic equivalent of Sunday school, with scary nuns who dressed black down to their toes and seemed to eerily glide up behind you at the most inconvenient times. What they taught us was to be sorry, for our actions, for our thoughts. Mostly I was sorry I had to be there. I just wanted to lay in bed and listen to Big John and Sparky on my little Sylvania cathode ray tube radio. Confession was interesting. One priest was all soft and sweet, but you spent an inordinate amount of time in his confessional, examining the minute aspects of your poor venal soul. The other was a beast who yelled at you, and since the only barrier between you and the rest of the church was a velvet curtain, everyone got to hear his displeasure. But I went to him because we got it over really fast. I like my guilt in short, easy to understand bursts. I think I have learned how to be contrite best in AA, where we do regular self-inventories, examining our motives and actions and their impact on others. You see, once upon a time, I didn't think a lot about that. I only felt my own pain. As a sober person, I have to deal with the pain I caused others. I didn't always make the best decisions, and I suppose they will haunt me as long as I draw breath. And out of those decisions came some of the greatest blessings I have ever received. It seems all confused at the moment, but I have people who can help me sort it out. And a program of moral values to live by. It's all good, after all.
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