Toby

I checked at the rectory—it’s on the way, behind the church. You should have seen the two lines for confessions: all the way outside the church and down the block in both directions.

You gotta chuckle.

I banged on the rectory door. This little bitty lady opened it and said, “Can I help you?”

I said, “Hello down there.”

She didn’t even crack a smile. “Can I help you?” she said again.

I asked her if two greasy little kids happened to come by here with a Jesus-looking rock.

“Yes they did and I sent them away. Father is much too busy to be bothering with—”

“What about the rock? They leave it here?”

“No. I suggested they leave it. I told them—”

“So they took it? They still got it?”

“And I hope they don’t return. As I said, Father is much too—”

“So what did you think?”

“What did I think?”

“About the rock. Think it looked like Jesus?”

She gave a shrug. “Slight resemblance.”

“Aw, come on. Did you put your glasses on?”

“You’re a bold thing, aren’t you.”

“Do you like that?”

“No, I do not. I find it very offensive in someone your age.”

“Oh, now...”

“Have you been to confession?”

”I think that’s kind of personal, ma’am, don’t you?”

“Our Lord is ‘kind of personal.’”

“Good point. So let me ask you this. Would you pay a dime to visit with Him for a minute? On a personal basis? Just you and Jesus? A full minute? For ten cents?”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. Enjoy the weather.”