It's been years since I set foot inside St. Greg's. That isn't intended to sound so emphatic. My local parish had not scheduled a Lenten penance service, so I traveled down the road yesterday to Hamilton, to St. Greg's.

The church was packed, absolutely packed. And the thought occurred to me that my parish priest might be serving as a confessor, but he was not.

Back in the day when my time was more my own, I used to take the sacrament at off-peak hours. Funny, 'though, I would still attend the penance service and then just boldly walk out as everyone else queued up, knowing that I'd already done it. Sounds prideful to me now but, at the time, I don't think it was. I was humbler then. And desperate for time in church, any time at all.

I wasn't even sure about taking private confession last night. I wasn't feeling particularly repentant. My confidence in this sacrament was never shaken as in the case of the Eucharist. Conveniently so, or else I would be without hope.

Watching others, their interaction with the priests at the front of the church seemed intimate and quite helpful, not unlike psychological therapy. Waiting 30 minutes or more en queue was a part of my penance, I think. Towards the end of the service, I approached and told him of my doubts and my broken familial relationship.

He addressed only the former case, calling Christ's presence in the Eucharist a great gift to the Church and something that distinguishes us from other religions and faiths. True enough, as far as it goes. Maybe he thought that if I get the first relationship straightened out, the second one will come along. So, anyway, I'm technically ready for Easter.