John's confession (from my novel "The children of yesterday")

          John's confession

         John has just lost a federal appeal, so that he quickly approaches his execution. He is
         in despair, but, above all, worried for Ada. Here he meets Father Brendan, the Catholic
         chaplain of Raiford death-row.

Father Brendan, after talking with Ada, felt the concern to speak with John too. On Tuesday he had to make his usual visit to Raiford for confessions and, in passing through the building 5, where the young man had been moved to, he was happy when, at the end of the corridor, he saw his tall figure in the shadows behind the bars. The heat was stifling, and John, not foreseeing the confessor coming, just wore his boxers. When he saw the priest's robe and his purple stole fluttering in the hallway, he seemed genuinely surprised and hurried to assure:

 

 

- Wait, father! I dress up quickly! - He put on his shorts and the first white jersey he happened to find, then he came up to the bars.

- Excuse me, father, but it's so hot in here ... I choke. I can't do otherwise.

Brendan nodded in understanding: - If you knew how I feel myself with the black robe!

- You might wear the clergyman, however - the young man observed.

- Actually, the robe seems lighter ... I'd almost imitate you, but afterwards, who knows what the bishop would say! - And he snorted. John suppressed a half-smile.

- Do you want to confess? - In response, John took a more focused attitude and knelt on the hard concrete flagstone, while the father sat down on the stool he carried with himself. The priest, for a moment, considered he had only rarely seen, outside the prison, someone ready to kneel like that, immediately and without a word, on the bare cement for confession. Maybe this happened only in places of pilgrimage, he thought.

- In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Spirit ...

- Amen.

 

 

John loved confession. As a boy, when his mother Grace carried him with her to the first Sunday Mass and entrusted him to the indulgent confessional of the parish priest, he had been struggling to understand the meaning of this ritual, in his view, he had always to repeat the same things for; then, as a teenager, he had turned away from it, fearing to get even much more bitter reproaches than those he already suffered from at home. But since he was on the death row, even before he got acquainted with Ada, confession had surprisingly turned to him into a relief. At first, when the priest had appeared the first times before his cell, he had felt almost compelled to confess: years of maternal imprinting had not passed in vain. With the first absolutions, however, he had discovered with wonder that he was not reprimanded, indeed. Of course, the chaplain was generally sympathetic and benevolent; but it was not just that. Confession constituted, to John, a unique opportunity to lay down his unsustainable loads, to experience they could actually be named, managed without negative emotions and eventually removed from his shoulders thanks to love and forgiveness. Apart from Ada, confession represented to him the only chance of knowing to be forgiven.

- Tell me - the priest began.

John took a deep breath. - I lost another appeal and I felt moments of anger ... of strong anger ... Perhaps, indeed, without perhaps, even hatred ... Father, I don't want to apologize in advance, but hatred is palpable here any time and sticks to our skin ...
- Hatred against who?

- Against other prisoners, against those who put me in here, against the system, against everything ... Even and especially against myself ...

 

 

- It might not be hate - the father observed magnanimously - and even if it were anger, it's, to some extent, a normal emotion. Hate is quite different from an emotion: it's a will of evil against others. Negative emotions, however, are natural, spontaneous, often irrepressible, especially if we're victims of others: the important thing is trying to manage them.

- I don't know, father. I'm often surprised by terrible thoughts on others ... And also criticism ... I'm tough, uncompromising ... Lately, I prayed very little. Maybe, it's also why I wasn't able to cope with my negative emotions, as you say.

- Why?

- I don't know ... I didn't feel like ... Lately, I haven't even read my usual page of the Bible. It was as if I were talking by myself. Sometimes, in here, I even find it hard to believe that God exists.

Those words had the power to distract Brendan for a moment and carry him far away from there, back in time: more than twenty years before, in Savannah, in the cathedral, where a little blond boy with lively blue eyes reached the officiant swinging a censer and letting grow large coils of smoke; he visibly enjoyed enormously swinging the censer, to the point that the priest, from his motionless station behind the altar, glanced at him sideways, letting him know to stop it at last. And now, here he was, that little, blond boy: become a man, he was kneeling in front of him beyond the bars of a cell. The father's heart sank, as it happens to every educator who sees his children suffering or drifting. And before this pain, he felt lonely too. Abandoned. Even by God.

- Even Christ felt lonely on the night in Gethsemane - he repeated, perhaps more to himself than to John. The young man did not react, as if he were not convinced by the analogy. Then he continued:

- And then I'm wrong with Ada. Now I feel it's not right that I retain her in an emotional bond: in these conditions ...

- She loves you, though - the priest objected. John shook his head in discouragement.

 

 

- I no longer know whether it's good or bad to continue our love story. When we first met, I was at the beginning of my appeals and still counting on a breakthrough: her love for me was life, and it seemed so natural to follow it... Keeping myself from loving her would have been like to stop breathing or closing my eyes to the light; and I dreamed of making her happy. But now ... now it's different. Ada'd like some children and, in this condition, I can't give them to her. I'm a dry tree.

Brendan shook vigorously his head, in denial, but John continued. - She lives alone and she'd need a man next to protect her: and I'm in here. I'm good for nothing. I'm sure she diminishes the dangers of her profession so that I don't worry excessively. But I'm worried. Jacksonville is a bad city, it's dangerous, and on night, when I lie on my cot, I wonder: what is she doing? Is she safe? Who'll watch over her?

A silence. John could hear the faint rustle of the music coming from Tobias' earphones and had a thought of gratitude to his fellow-prisoner: in the past, he often harbored the impression, if not the certainty, that his confessions were heard with curiosity from the neighboring cells and he felt uncomfortable. His new location was better and Tobias was endowed with the discretion of sensitive and respectful souls. The voice of Father Brendan aroused him.

- John, do you believe that your love is your work or that Someone else made you meet?

The reaction of John was one of passive melancholy. - I don't know it anymore.

- Remember that you're not the only one to decide. God has his part and Ada has her place in this way. I don't think you forced her to love you.

- I tried to hide my feelings for months, but I couldn't .... Maybe, if I kept quiet ...

- John, have you ever tried to forgive yourself?

The young man raised his face towards the confessor and stared at him with his blue irises. He seemed perplexed, astonished.

- God forgives the world every morning, John: He forgives the all of us when He makes His sun rise on good and evil people; He forgives us, when the dawn sprinkles the earth with dew; but He forgives us all in the evening, when another day has passed and, instead of the very pure dew, the moon finds, by its shining, the dross of evil committed in the previous hours ... We just have to ask for that forgiveness.

- And if we didn't deserve it? ...

- No one deserves forgiveness, John: it's priceless, because God would never trade it.

The young man was silent, not knowing what to answer.

 

 

- Ask him for forgiveness, John: every morning. Every night. Maybe you haven't much to be forgiven for, but you need His forgiveness to live: as the land needs dew and the sun. And receive from Him Ada's love: it's a gift from Him. Perhaps, one day, when you've really forgiven yourself, you'll be completely convinced about it; but, for now, accept it. Let yourself be loved, John: Let yourself be loved. You'll progress as much as you let yourself be loved...