I went to confession yesterday.
I walked over to the church, while my friend Tim continued to dig his car out of the snow.
He had gotten himself stuck here the night before, not only because of the snow but also because of a flat tire.
Perhaps this was God's way of providing me with the assistance I'd need to dig myself out the following morning, since my parents were stuck in their own snow fort and unable to help me.
We had watched that lovely movie about John Paul 2, the one where I cry like a baby when they wheel our beloved pope to the window and he opens his mouth to speak but only drools. This is the most tender part of the film for me, and it tears at my heartstrings, knowing that Our God had silenced him, that this amazing pope had spoken all that he was called to, and thus he could say nothing more to us. Oh, how my heart aches, every time I think about it.
Anyway, it had been a month since I had last gone to confession, and there was muck on my soul that I needed to get rid of. The humility it takes to confess your sins to God before a priest is a courage that needs to be worked up to, but I thank God for the sacrament. I let myself get very sad and mournful before going, and afterward, I allow myself to fill with glee, the childlike happiness that comes with the realization that you can do nothing without your Heavenly Father's forgiveness and love.
My sins were nothing out of the ordinary for me, but the penance I was assigned was the greatest I had ever been given. I thank God for this because I want very much to atone for my sins and learn all the more acutely from my mistakes.
When Tim's Volvo was freed and his flat tire was changed, we said good-bye, and I went across the street again, this time to attend Mass.
That night, after an hour-long walk with Macy in the snow, I looked up at the stars in the sky and felt affirmed: in my vocation, in my present state of being single, in this childhood before God, in the way that everything was and ever will be.
God provides for me, and He always will.