Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo did his time in the box yesterday afternoon.  These days, I go to confession on average about once a month or so.  (Unless, of course, I’ve been unusually naughty.  You know what a wild child Ol’ Robbo can be!  Whoa, Nellie!)

Kidding aside, I often feel a bit sheepish going in, because I usually don’t have all that much to say.  (I think my record penance – apart from my first confession when I swam the Tiber – is something like three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers.)  But I always end with a plea for forgiveness of all of my past sins, especially those that I don’t remember.

This is critical to me:  Ol’ Robbo doesn’t hold grudges or let the sun go down on his wrath.  This is a good thing, but the flip side is that I also tend to forget if I’ve done wrong by somebody else.  Even if I try to examine my conscience at the end of the day, I know that I’ll miss some of my own sinfulness.  After a while, I can feel these things building up, almost like mold or rust on my soul.  So the two alternatives are either carrying a notepad around and scribbling down all my bads in real time, which is insane, or else counting on God’s omniscience and mercy and my own sincerity when I add the catch-all.

I suspect that if I put all this to my Padre, he’d only laugh. But he’s the one who beats the drum so often about the importance of regular confession, so here I am, Father, with my sense of guilt present and ready for inspection!