Let me see your eyes.

Before I begin any attempt to study for my final that's Friday, I want to share with you a little gift I received today.

I hate confession. I hate not with animosity, but rather a hate the feeling of failing. I have always had a deep connection, a drawing to the Father. And sometimes I have moments with him that are so intimate--When I'm the loneliest and weep, confused and weep, hurt, or tired I feel so connected to Abba. The moment might literally be five seconds or a good half an hour, but I had a moment. A moment where I had an encounter with the Father. So, when I fail, I sometimes don't even know how to look at Him, tell Him I love Him, or even open the bible to read Holy Scripture...I become ashamed and embarrassed of my actions--that with all my knowledge of what I know of the living Church, I fail. Or even-more,I feel abandoned by Him, distant, and my relationship with God becomes factual. For instance, God loves you. He died for you. He is your true joy. He has plan for you. Yet, I don't feel that confidence that comes with those facts and I'm forced to live on facts that feel too structured and not malleable. BUT. Here is my reality,there are weeks when become angry and frustrated with God and I act out by making poor decisions. I am human. And I can say with a passion that I hate making poor decisions.

I have this memory of being 13 and my mother telling me we are going to confession as a family. I was so certain that she could not force me to go into the confessional booth and that my stubborn Irish behavior would dominate. Uh. I think not. She held my hand, I was screaming, and very quickly shut the door and there I was sitting behind the screen, talking to the priest. I think I made up some stupid sins and told him I didn't want to be there.

The point or the moral of the story is that I showed up. That even though I didn't want to be there, I was there. And the Grace was there even if I didn't believe in it.

Its funny, as an adult Catholic I still have the same fears entering the confessional booth. That yes, today, I wrote out what I wanted to say and yet the room was so dark I couldn't read my bullet points. I was left, stranded, being as vulnerable as I think Christ wanted me to be.

Confession is one of those Mysteries of the Church I don't quite understand and probably will have questions about it for the rest of my life--BUT I do know that when I enter the room, confide in a priest, I come out transformed, united, and healed. Thank you Mom for forcing me into that confessional. You helped build a beautiful character.

One of my closest friend, Elizabeth Butler said that when she would come home from confession her mother would always ask to see her eyes. That her eyes, looked lighter, and brighter!

After confession, I got in the car and looked in the mirror. Friends,I have lighter eyes that are greener, and brighter!

Praise and Glory to Him.