Before I enter the confessional

No larger than a phone booth

I grip the velvet box with the ring,

Her ring, the one she wore daily,

Still warm from her loving touch.

Part of me wants to crush it with

All my might or throw it like a ball

To break these stained-glass windows.

Part of me wants to wear it next

To my heart on a golden chain.

I shall do neither. For I am a man.

The light goes off, and I may enter

I kneel before my forgiving pastor.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It has been three years since my last

Confession. Here are my sins."

"My son, you do not need to treat

This sacrament with such formality."

Of course he'd say that. He's a liberal.

Inside anger bubbles and boils red-hot

Like a stew left too long on the burner.

He does not honor this holy Sacrament,

But I do. I come here with a heavy heart.

"I have not spoken of my sins before

Because I felt not a shred of remorse.

I honor God's forgiveness too much to lie,

And I knew I would sin again and again

To protect my fiancée's immortal soul."

"See me as a friend, a conduit to God.

Tell Him your sorrow, and be renewed."

Yes, the priest is a conduit, not a friend.

We may share a faith, but his kind are at

Fault for leading parishioners astray

With a liberal interpretation of the Word

And an adoption of the modern ways.

He even advocates dating. Not courtship.

"I have engaged in the sin of self-release

Weekly at least. Though I know it to be a

Mortal sin, I took on that grave burden

To protect my wife--for thus I saw her--

From falling with me into temptation."

The priest hums, probably too stunned

To speak, for he doesn't share my views

Nor does his congregation. I should find

A new church, one whose believers

Do not mock me, but share my views.

"Your motives are admirable." He pauses.

"True, many view it as a mortal sin,

A selfish act thwarting natural union,

But modern scientists hold another view:

Self-release may favor your good health."

To hell with these heathens!

"I was selfish," I insist, "and must atone."

The condescension falls heavy. "My son,

Why have you come to me now?"

I clench the velvet box with the ring.

"My wife..." My throat clenches. "She

Has left me. And though we did not

Take our final vows, I felt them carved

Upon my heart, and I cannot move on."

An empathetic sigh falls from his lips,

And it makes me hate him even more.

Let him keep his pity. It is not his job!

Through him I secure God's forgiveness.

Keep your weakling heart far from me!

"My son, that is difficult."

Difficult? Is it difficult to breathe

When you're suffocated by a pillow?

Is it difficult to navigate on a mountain

Covered in fog so thick you cannot see?

No, this is both at once. Excruciating.

His voice is soft, almost grating.

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I have bent so far to meet her will.

Though our political lens differed,

I viewed it as a challenge from God

To stand patient, yet not to bend

Nor to harden my heart in anger."

The priest stays silent.

For this, I'm thankful.

"When she desired a long courtship,

I agreed though it led us to temptation.

My love has a keen mind and God called

Her to attend college for His glory.

We were to marry after graduation."

"Soon?"

The pained whisper falls, "Next year."

"Who broke it off?"

"We both did." I squeeze my eyes shut.

"She has abandoned the Way.

The politics I could stand.

The courtship I could stand.

But to abandon God entirely?

I cannot marry a heathen."

The priest sighs. "That much is true,

But don't give up hope so soon.

Perhaps she needs time to face

Her crisis of faith. If she asks for God's

Forgiveness, all will be healed in time."

"I cannot convince her, Father. I've tried."

"Perhaps it is not your choice to make."

This makes my blood boil like lava.

"I strive to be an Ephesians 5 man:

I sacrifice for those I love.

I nourish and cherish my faith.

I gently lead others toward the Way."

"You cannot lead those

Who do not wish to follow."

"But I failed her!" I exclaim.

"In so doing, I failed God Himself."

The last words fall as a pained whisper.

The priest doesn't speak, but I can hear

His liberal condemnation like a shriek

Or nails upon a chalkboard. The same

I've heard a hundred times from the left.

Those words were written years ago.

Your beliefs are no longer relevant.

Do you wish to enslave your wife?

Are you a control freak?

Why should a wife stay at home?

Don't they realize the corporate world is

True slavery? Your time is not your own--

Your will is not your own. You serve.

I'm protecting my future wife

By providing for her so that she's free.

Free to pursue the interests

Her heart desires.

Free to raise our children

Without extra burdens.

Free to believe and act as she sees fit.

And Tala agreed. I never forced her

To do anything against her will.

I don't want to control her.

The ego is the will of Satan.

Tala has her own mind and will,

And I love her for it. Even now.

After all this pain and rejection.

Other traditional Catholic women

Either stray from the path or gaze

Up to a man as her salvation, her

Savior, saying only yes to his will,

Rather than to the will of God.

This I cannot abide. A man needs

A strong woman who can teach

And guide her children to the Way,

Who can stand as an anchor for her

Family and push them toward greatness.

A wife is not a slave, but an equal

With different but complementary

Skills so that each parent can foster

A loving home, a stronghold against

The wicked storms of the world.

Tala was my anchor.

And I miss her.

"God works in mysterious ways."

The priest gives me absolution

And some foolish penance that

He'd give an eight-year-old child.

I shall perform true penance later.

I shall fast for forty days like Jesus,

Cleanse myself of this mortal sin and

Rededicate myself to his Word. I shall

Receive his body and blood every day

Until I purge Tala from my heart.