All these little memories, all of them are coming back to me, and I'm not sure why. Nothing about this visit in particular ought to dredge them up, right? I mean, Kay and I have only talked passingly about faith, and sure, I didn't attend mass this weekend and am missing it, but there is little to suggest that this have anything to do with the flood of the small things from the past. Is it the lingering sensation of discernment?

Or perhaps it's talking with God. Perhaps it's less Kay than it is the way in which I'm approaching this whole situation. She herself is not bringing these out in me, but I am recapitulating so many of the same patterns I went through during my discernment.

I wrote before about certain embarrassing things sticking in the mind of the one embarrassed. We Catholics, we are so good at that. We're so good at picking the embarrassing things and hanging them up on the wall, admiring them, and then inviting others to share in the embarrassment with us. Our confessors are the witnesses to our shame. All we can hope is that they provide relief, and yet perhaps that is why so many confessions stick within the mind.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession, and I accuse myself...I accuse..."

Other than the soft sounds of breathing and the barest hint of vulpine beneath the scent-block, nothing made its way from the other side of the screen, familiar even so many years after the fact, even long after I left St John's

"I accuse myself of the sin of doubt."

"You know that doubt is not a sin, my child."

"I guess, but my doubt is in my vocation."

"I see. Do you doubt in God?"

"No, no. Just...I find myself doubting, uh...I find myself doubting my upcoming role in the Church."

"What about the Church do you doubt, if your faith is solid?"

"I can't put my finger on it."

There was a quiet sigh from the other side of the screen.

"I guess my sin is that I am doubting my ability to actually serve God like I'm supposed to."

"What makes you think that?"

I shrugged helplessly. "I don't do well in front of crowds. No matter how much I try to fix that, I just can't. I doubt that I will ever be able to."

"I see."

It was my turn to wait in silence. Eventually, I bowed my head and said, "That is all, Father. For these and all of my sins, I ask forgiveness from God, and penance and absolution from you."

There was a pause, and then, "Alright, I will ask you to say three Our Fathers for doubting the path that God has laid out for you. It could be that you are still discovering this path, but doubt will only hinder you from carrying out His works. However, my son--" The priest rushed to forestall any response, and I remember hearing a smile creeping into his voice. "Outside of your penance, I would also like you to talk to your advisor. As your confessor, I can only offer you spiritual guidance."

I splayed my ears, chagrined, and bowed my head. "Thank you, Father."

With the final *go in peace* still ringing in my ears, with the tips of my fingers still humming from crossing myself, with the hot flush of embarrassment still pulling at my cheeks, I stepped from the confessional and blinked in the sudden light and space. I took two quick, grounding breaths, and then walked from the chapel.

*I do not want to be here.* The thought had become a mantra.

Outside, I walked slowly to one of the concrete blocks that served as benches and sat, resting my face in my paws. If I could not see the stars, if I had only concrete and paving stones before me, then if I wanted to pray, I had to block out my sight. It was all too much. I would find myself tracing the paving stones or the catenary arc of the contemporary entrance to St. Francis Abbey if I left them open.

> *Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let yours ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications...*

I was not ready yet. Not ready for my penitential *pater noster*. Not ready to go see my advisor. I didn't feel ready for anything.

Most of all, I realized I was not ready to admit to myself that not wanting to be here implied the possible solution of leaving, of *not* being here. I wasn't ready.

> *...If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with you so that you may be revered...*

I didn't even feel ready for this prayer, for this call out to God. What iniquities faced me? I was privileged to be able to attend such a school as this. I was loved by God and the church and loved them in turn. I was lucky to have been born with a mind so expansive, a body so healthy.

Perhaps the iniquities were within. Perhaps it was something about myself, within myself, a core aspect of myself. Perhaps the privilege was undeserved. Just a coyote, right? Just a farmer, right? And yet here I was, languishing at a renowned seminary.

> *...I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in His word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch the morning, more than those who watch the morning.*

And so I waited.

I wished it were night. I wished I could sit in the quad and look up at the stars, or down at the grass and try to differentiate the shades of green, there in the dark where color eluded me, to find in that liminal state some sensation of the Lord.

At least I could get up from where I was and away from this edifice of concrete and glass. It was, I had been promised, beautiful in its own way. But behind the Abbey, toward the lake, a small path wound through the woods, and there, between the trees and beside the water, stood the statue of St. Kateri Tekakwitha, the only canonized coyote I'd ever come across, and the saint most venerated by my father back home.

> *...O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem...*

I was not the farmer my family was, had few enough ties to her patronage of ecology and environmentalism, but in her I saw at least a face like my own. In her, I saw something of a people I could belong to, though she was from far to the east of my home in Idaho.

*Home.*

Home was back in Sawtooth, for Saint John's would never truly be my home, and that in itself was telling.

> *...It is He who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities.*

*Redeem Israel.*

Israel, who struggled with God.

I envied, as I often did, the Jewish tradition, that eternal argument about who God was, what He meant, in which God was an active participant. Perhaps here, I could wrestle with Him. Tumble with my faith. Get all scuffed up.

But Catholicism only offered him so much leeway, and this school even less.

"I don't want to be here," I confessed to the statue. I remember that. I remember the kindness in the stone, in her smile. I confessed, then sighed, sat at her feet, and began my penance.
