Most merciful God,
we confess that we have sinned against you
in thought, word and deed,
by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.
We have not loved you with our whole heart;
we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.
We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways,
to the glory of your Name. Amen.
I say this every Sunday. My voice joins the chorus of the 30 other congregants. We are connected by these lines, but I am not sure if saying this prayer makes me feel any different. At least not right now. Not right away. When I confess, my wish is to be understood, so I tell my mom everything as well as God, just to make sure I am covering my bases.
It is nice to actually tell my mom things, rather than journaling them or closing my eyes and ushering up quick prayers to God (things God knows, but I should still say aloud, right?). There is a beauty in the discomfort of sharing something with a person who I can see. It feels courageous in a way that is different from telling God. But sometimes, I can no longer distinguish between the two and I start to feel like it’s my mom who holds my eternity in her hands.
It feels like my mom approving of me is synonymous with God approving of me. And if she doesn’t approve, I will start to think I misread God. If it’s so easy to confess to God, why does it feel harder to tell her? Confessing to God means forgiveness, but confessing to her feels beyond that. I feel set free.
If I choose not to share something, does that mean I am keeping it from her? That thought squirms inside me, building up a swarm of guilt that I cannot swallow or ignore. Sometimes, the guilt I feel for not sharing will get so pent up that I start thinking she might love me less or differently. Even if it is something small that I do not tell her, I cannot help but feel worlds apart from her. And she has no idea. The stakes constantly feel extreme, and I begin to wonder if they have to.
I confess so she knows she can still count on me. So she knows I am still me, even after I make a mistake. So she trusts me. So she knows the truth about me and I don’t have to sit with it alone again. Her approval means everything. It means everything until I experience or realize something I know she will not side with me on.
When I said swear words in middle school to impress the boys on my track team, I sheepishly admitted it, burying my face in my hands and hoping she would not hold it over me. When I looked at my friend’s test in middle school social studies, I cried to my mom, knowing she would comfort me because I was honest. When I struggled with my family’s church, I asked her if she would be mad if I decided not to be Lutheran. When would she be on my side? I have to somehow convince her.
She has to understand. I cannot be at odds with her. I cannot bear it. So this is where I am not sure what to do with the thing I am keeping from her.
I say nothing for several reasons. For one, some confessions warrant an in-person discussion. So I compromise with half-truths over the phone. Second, I watched the repercussions of my brother’s similar confession, and I see how she and my dad have reacted. My parents avoid this aspect of my brother’s life. A hushed topic even behind closed doors. I say nothing because I fear she finds me the only kid she can count on. I fear that she will ask for proof of this. I fear that she will invalidate my relationship with God.
She has to suspect something. I keep hinting at this confession. And I worry that if I keep this in any longer, my list of things to tell her will grow and I will continue to feel silently estranged from her. She has to know the truth about me so this tightness in my chest at the mere thought of sharing can go away.
If I confess, at least I am being honest. If I confess, I do not have to feel alone again, and my brother will not have to experience this alone either. If I confess, will my mom feel closer to me? Will she question my faith even more so? Or can I show her two things can be true at once?
She has to wonder why my calls have become less frequent. She has to be curious why I have been so vague lately. She has to know there is more to me than this thing I am keeping from her. But soon enough, I’ll live under her roof again, and she may have to know. But I don’t know when I will be ready to share.
So just for now, I sit in the pew alone.