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Confessions of a repeat offender: back for another session on the confessional, a young woman realizes that falling is part of the journey.

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Father Don leans forward in his chair. The air of the confessional is quiet, cool, and light.

The small Polish priest is in all-black attire, save for the strip of white collar at his throat. He offers his hand to me. I take it in mine, soft. We briefly shake hands and I seat myself on the edge of the chair in front of him. I want to get in and out quickly.

"Hello, Father." I smile at him, crossing my forearms and hands over my legs to hide how short my shorts are. He smiles warmly at me and kindly does not take notice of my gesture.

"Welcome. How long has it been since your last Confession?"

"Maybe a month or so, Father."

"OK. Let's pray that you make a good Confession." He bends his head down, his soft hands folded at his knee. His muttering is nearly inaudible. I bend my head down, making up a prayer and finishing before him.

His gray-white hair is slicked back, smooth and clean, with a razor-straight part off to the right side. His flame is small, suggesting he has perhaps taken the Lenten practice of fasting too far. His shoulders and chest are the same size as the 11-year-old boys who tend to the candles and incense at Mass. There is something about him. Humility. In his face. In the quiet bend of his arms. In the slope of his shoulders and neck. My shoulders straighten in his presence. I tug my shirt down to thoroughly cover my somewhat exposed midriff. Then I begin.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

I first came to him when I moved to the apartment on Crescent Street. I called my morn to tell her how close I was to...

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