Laughing in Church Today, Fiery Damnation Tomorrow

My shoes squished as I entered the confessional and I winced, praying to a merciful God that the priest wouldn't hear them or notice my dripping pant legs. Never was a confession of sins so short or so quickly delivered as it was the day I peed my pants in church.

I'm not sure what it is about being in church that lends itself to mischief. Perhaps it's the somber setting, the sit-stand-kneel routine, the quietness of the congregation, the grave sermons, or the gaggles of old women clutching rosaries to their lips, whispering stale-breathed Hail Mary's. Whatever the case, it is, apparently, too much pressure for the irreverent juveniles my sister Becca and I tend to become when within 20 feet of each other.

Place the two of us in a formal situation and watch as we try our hardest to unravel each other's poise. Oh, your grandfather just died and Becca and I are paying our respects at the casket? Pay no attention to my shaking shoulders; it's just me grieving. It has absolutely nothing to do with Becca mimicking the dead guy's face in the most disturbingly skillful manner.

On this particular day, Becca and I had been escorted to church by my mother, who had informed us that we were full of sin, as of late, and probably due for a good soul cleansing at confession. Regardless of how right she was, neither of us particularly looked forward to waiting in a line 30-senior-citizens-deep for an hour only to reach the end where we would quickly conjure up a sin-list just long enough to be appropriate for confession without being so long as to piss off the people waiting behind us*. It wasn't long before we'd found a way to entertain ourselves. 

Heeding my mother's suggestion to use the wait time in line to reflect on my transgressions, I folded my hands and assumed the most pious expression I could muster. Becca was standing quietly in front of me and appeared to have paid heed to my mother's suggestion, too. I closed my eyes in order to focus more on how to best word one particular sin that may or may not have involved sneaking glasses of my mother's boxed Franzia from the fridge.

As I stood there, a strange feeling came over me...like I was being watched. Perhaps it was the Almighty peering into the black abyss of evil deeds within me? No...it was something else...

I opened my eyes only to be met with the face of my sister, two inches from my own, twisted into the most hideously obnoxious expression she could manage. There was no time to filter my reaction. A loud "BAHAHAHA" escaped my throat, bouncing loudly off the rafters and stained glass depictions of Christ on the cross. I swiftly covered my mouth with my hands to contain my laughter and Becca did the same, as the creaking of stiff old necks turning met our ears and we felt the heat of dozens of aged eyes burning shame into our souls with an adeptness only the Catholics can rally.

Becca was in agony, trying with all her might to stifle her snorts of laughter. Watching her body racked with hilarity and hearing her raggedly inhale and gulp back chuckles was too much for me. With laughter being more contagious than a cold, I doubled over, holding my stomach in fits of my own silent giggles, when suddenly the urge to pee hit me furiously. 

I stopped laughing instantly and assumed one of those panicky butt-out, legs-crossed crouches typically reserved for toddlers who can't make it to the potty seat quick enough. I was thirteen. I began to sweat.

My sister, sensing my shift in mood, turned around mid-laugh to see me hunched over in my awkward, tell-tale stance. Knowing that I was balancing precariously on the edge of Piss Reservoir, she lost it. I lost it. I was guffawing helplessly as pee started to trickle, and then gush, down my pant legs. Holding back pee was as much of a lost cause as holding back our laughter and by now we were a spectacle to behold: me madly giggling in my soaking wet pants while tripping over my chortling sister's hunched form on my mad dash to the bathroom.

I spent the next half hour in the basement bathroom rinsing out my pants. When I gathered enough courage and self-control to ascend back upstairs to the confession line, Becca was already at the front. I soberly headed to the back of the line to avoid stirring up any more trouble. My mother, completely unaware of the whole spectacle, was surprised to see me at the back of the line. When she asked me why I was all the way at the end, I lied, saying that I just needed a little more time to reflect on my sins. She was happy with my answer until later on the car ride home when Julianne said, "I can't believe you peed your pants!"

At long last it was my turn for confession. I entered the room and rounded the privacy curtain that blocked off the view of the other confession goers only to find that this was a face-to-face set up with the priest. I was used to screened confessionals where you can only barely make out the form of the person on the other side and your identity remains anonymous. I froze mid-stride and stood there awkwardly before the priest, my gaze shifting from his face to the door, trying to decide whether or not to run.

"Welcome. Have a seat."

Reluctantly, I decided to stay and walked to the chair adjacent to the priest's. 

Squish. Squish. Squish.

I paused, hovering my soaking backside over the cushioned, cloth seat of my chair. If I sat down here, the next confessor was in for a wet surprise. 

"What brings you here today?" the priest launched in, cutting short my internal debate.

I gingerly sat down on the very edge of the seat.

Somewhere in the middle of rapidly ticking off some stock juvenile sins along the lines of "disrespecting my parents," "fighting with my siblings," or "cussing," but skirting completely around the freshest sin of them all, it became undeniably apparent that I had soiled myself as the stench of urine filled the small room. The priest pretended not to notice that anything was amiss, but graciously sped through absolution while I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. As soon as the final blessing was said, I muttered a quick thanks and shot out the room abruptly. That day, I left behind no genuine confession of sins other than a set of soggy footprints on the polished confessional floor.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been 13 years since my best confession."

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*(Side story: when I was ten years old, my father made me wait TWO HOURS for an old lady in line in front of me to finish spewing off her list of sins. What the HELL did that 95 year old woman do that warranted a two hour confession? Old gal must have raped, pillaged, and murdered a village of people with her bare hands for it to take that long. I'm not sure waiting in line has ever pissed me off as much as it did that day. Shoot...3 hour DMV visit? Bring it.)