A Mother’s Confession:
why it’s a lot like going to the dentist
A View from the Pew
By Marybeth Hicks

When my mouth opens, my sins are obvious. Their stain colors each word crossing my lips. I need cleansing, and it’s a process I generally dread, but afterward, find refreshing, rejuvenating. It’s tabula rasa – a clean slate.

I’m deep in thought, eyes closed, while the gentle young man behind me – whose face I can’t see – probes and checks for any unmentioned transgressions. And right about then I realize, being here in this dentist’s chair is a lot like going to confession.

I admit I don’t avail myself of this extraordinary sacrament as often as I should. Probably because it goes something like this: I take my daughter to confession on a Saturday afternoon. She dashes in and out of the reconciliation room without breaking a sweat.

Then it’s my turn. I take the opportunity to receive absolution, but also to talk with my priest about my family and marriage. I want to improve my service to God as a wife and mother. When I emerge from the confessional, Katie nearly shouts, “Mom, what took you so long? You must have had a lot of sins!” I can hear the priest laughing behind the door.

A few weeks ago, I again hit the box. Before I go in, I do a thorough examination of conscience, but my life doesn’t leave a lot of time for your juicier sins. Mine are mostly the result of opening my mouth and speaking to or about others in words the Lord must cringe to hear. Also, I tend to use His name a bit too liberally, and not always in prayer. Come to think of it, I might be a candidate for sainthood if someone would just remove my larynx.

I tell this to the priest. I go on about my demanding, sometimes caustic, often dockworker vocabulary. I stop short of saying something like, “Father, do you understand what the hell I’m talking about?” But it’s clear I’m afflicted with the curse of the overly-communicative.

When I complete my list of failings, he does what all priests do. He asks, “Is that all?” Why do they do this? Do some people actually respond, “No, Father. I forgot to mention I’m an axe murderer”? I can’t think of anything else so I brace myself for his response. This will be the spiritual equivalent of a root canal.

But this is what he says: “What do you do that is just for yourself? Do you have a hobby, or do you spend time with girlfriends? Do you exercise? What do you do for you?”

I’m speechless – which is the only way I’ll avoid more frequent visits to this place, but that’s not the point. The point is, didn’t he hear anything I said? Four kids. A husband. A writing career. Endless loads of laundry. What I do for myself is collapse every evening into a bed that probably needs clean sheets. Who has time to notice?

My penance is stunning. “Have a conversation with Jesus about how you might find the time to do something that nurtures you.”

It isn’t drilling and filling or a lecture on the miracle of dental floss. It’s beyond kindness. My penance is to remember to take care of myself, so that I can do a more loving job of taking care of others.

So yesterday, to care of myself I went to the dentist. This doesn’t sound like much, but when they put the chair way back and shine that halogen light in your eyes so you simply must close them, it’s a little bit of heaven on a busy day.