A Cardinal Sin I’d best describe myself today as a submarine catholic but fifty years ago well after my baptism my first holy communion & my confirmation i would have likely said – practising catholic most friday nights back then i’d find myself with Father kneeling before him on the carpeted step of the confessional box my little red face pressed upwards to the grille & even with that flimsy black fabric shrouding the grille i knew that he knew who i was as much as he knew that i knew who he was & after he’d dissolved a few easy one’s like i swore (he never asked what particular words i’d used) & after i’d admitted i’ve been rude to my mother (he never asked what my behaviour had been) & after i’d mumbled i missed mass last Sunday (he never asked if i’d been to mid-week mass) but always after i’d told him i’ve had obscene thoughts again he questioned me at length – & lingered over this . . . wanting to know each & every detail & by george i think i’ve finally worked out why. – Geoff Goodfellow Father Tom Or here’s a small story that isn’t small at all. An old friend of mine who is now a chaplain Didn’t get along with his dad too well when My buddy was a teenager. His dad was hard And my buddy was hard-headed, is one way To explain it. One winter night they get into It big-time, shouting and smashing furniture, Almost but not quite exchanging serious fist. Something keeps them from the final frontier, As my buddy says quietly – God knows what. A couple days later the dad has a heart attack, And dies in the kitchen right by the dog bowl. That was forty years ago, man, says the priest. Forty years of me thinking maybe I killed dad. No matter how many times my mom and sister Said I didn’t I couldn’t stop wondering if I did. Who knows why a guy becomes