John Sutton's Confession
(Based on the year 2000 film, Yesterday’s Children, which is allegedly based on a true story)
In the spring of 1935, it was a sunny day in Malahide, a small Irish town outside of Dublin. A man with dirty clothes, oily hair, and with premature wrinkles around his face, walks sheepishly to the stony church close to his home. It was where his wife Mary, God rest her soul, would take their 4 children to Mass every Sunday morning. Once he approaches the stairs, he turns back around, as if he were going to walk away.
“Come on, ye wretched man,” he tells himself. “Ye arse made it thus far, and ye ain’t got no other chance.” He turns back around and goes into the church.
As he walks towards the door to the nave, he saw a font on the wall full of water. As his mother taught him when he was a wee one, he held out his hand to dip his fingers into the water. Before he touches it, however, he recoils his hand, afraid as if the water would burn him. He then takes a deep breath, sighs loudly, and dips his fingers into the water, then touches his forehead and makes the sign of the cross. He then enters the nave and is instantly overwhelmed by the smell of the cedar pews and faint incense, as well as how the marble altar shined the way he remembered long ago.
Once he locates the confessional, he walks quick over to it so that he would not have time to change his mind. He opened the door to his side of the confessional, and he kneels. The elderly priest, wearing a black cassock and clerical collar and cap, enters his side of the confessional.
“Is that ye, Father?” asks the man.
“Yes,” answers the priest. “’Tis I, me son.”
“Bless me, Father, “ he crosses himself, “for I have sinned.”
“And how long as it been since yer last confession?”
“Well, sighs the man, “I ain’t been to confession in a donkey’s years. Must be 15 years or so.”
“Please tell me yer sins.”
“Well, I, uh…” he stammered. “T’isn’t easy for me to say, Father.”
“The steps to salvation are oft large, but take one at a time.”
“I, uh, killed me wife.”
“You’ve just said ye killed yer wife.”
“Aye. And I made me kids run off.”
“Let’s get back to yer wife a moment, son. What was her name?”
“T’was Mary.”
“Now, tell me what happened.”
“Ain’t been a good father to me wee ones. Especially me oldest boy, Sonny. He tried to protect his ma. I’m a mean drunk, Father. I’m always drunk. So was me brothers, and so was me da. Me da would give me ma a clatter jaast fer givin’ him the eye. Me ma is a good Catholic saint, she is. She never hit back or left ‘im. Nobody stopped the oul man, so me figures that be the way of it. “
“Is that what happened? You beat her to death?”
“No, Father. That’s the tip o’ the berg. I truly was a bad husband, and a worse father. Me kids barely ate ‘cause I drank most of the money I earned on the farm where I worked. I pulled Sonny out of school and made him work. I would take away his money and go to the pub with it. One day, he tried to give it to his ma for safekeeping, but when it came to me what he did, I clattered Mary until she gave me his money. And I kept knockin’ her up. A man has needs, ye know. I never went to them harlots. I only went out to work and drink. And maybe an occasional Mass on a Christmas or Easter. Everyt’ing else, I came home. I went to my Mary for my needs. Months later, we had another mouth to feed. We was ‘spectin’ our fifth kid, and Mary had a real hard time of it. She was ill after, and the baby died. The doctor said that she shouldn’t have any more kids, lest she die. I guess I wasn’t thinkin’ then. One day, I came home tight from the pub with a hankerin’. Me Mary was in with the kids makin’ a coat for Frank, me second oldest son. I told her to come to the room with me, but she said we couldn’t. That made me think o’ what me da told me, ‘You have a right, and she has a duty. She cannot refuse ye..” The man stopped to wipe a tear and contain a sniffle.
“Go on,” encouraged the priest.
“I was an animal, Father,” the man’s voice cracks. “I told her not to say no to me and to do as she is told. I grabbed her up and tried pulling her out of the chair. When she fought me, I clattered her about the face. Then Sonny, not even twelve, took a fish knife and pointed it at me, trying to protect his ma. If I were in me right mind, I’d be proud of the little bugger. But I grabbed his wrist, took the knife out of his hand, and belted him good, knockin’ him to the floor. I turned me attention back to Mary, grabbing her arms and forced her into the bedroom where I made her do her duty. Then she got knocked up again. She was afraid of what would happen. When the kids were asleep or out mucking about, she spent all her free time prayin’ and sayin’ her rosary. Then there was the time for her to have the baby. She had a harder time of it that she did the last time, but the baby lived. Me Mary, though, got real weak, and her skin turned a shade o’ gray. The doctor, the very same who said she shouldn’t have no more kids, said that she needed hospital, and then our neighbor called her husband, who got his wagon. The doctor just stared at me, like he was God and was sendin’ me to hell. Maybe I deserve hell. We was puttin’ her in the wagon when me boy Sonny followed us out. She muttered somethin’ to ‘em, and he nodded his head. Didn’t know what that was about and didn’t have time to ask.”
“Excuse me, son,” interrupts the priest, “but this sounds like a parishioner who attended Mass here. Sutton? John Sutton? Is that ye?”
The man begins sobbing loudly, his hands covering his face.
“Aye, Father,” he answers between sobs. “T’is I.”
“T’is good ye’re here, son. This is a major step towards salvation. Do continue.”
“I don’t know if I can,” John keeps crying.
“But ye must. It’s the only way ye will be free.”
“Free from what?”
“Free from the grasp sin has on ye. Free from a troubled conscience. When ye don’t repent a sin ye know ye committed, John Sutton, the conscience can be a cruel slave master. Very cruel. Free yerself, son.”
“Very well, Father. So, we tried to get Mary to hospital fast as we could, but she stopped breathing. She died. And I killed her. “ John starts breathing deeply to keep himself from crying again. “If I hadn’t forced her, if I would have remembered what the doctor said, she would be still alive. It’s my fault me kids have no ma. It’s my fault they’re gone.”
“What happened to yer children?”
“After we buried her, I made all of the kids work along with Sonny and me at McConnell’s farm. ‘Specially the other two boys. They was just wee ones, but that didn’t stop me from beltin’ ‘em for not workin’ hard enough. One night, when I came home from the bar, I fell right in bed and went to sleep. When I work up, they was all gone. Even the baby. They never came back. A year after that, I was in the city, and I saw Sonny, all dirty, clothes a-tattered, and livin’ on the street. When I catch his eye, he tried to run, but I caught him by the arm. I started shakin’ him and told him to tell me where the other kids was. Well, the bugger was no longer a-feared of me. He said that they were where I couldn’t get ‘em and they was in an orphanage and got adopted. I grabbed him by the throat and said I’d squeeze the life out of him, but he hammered his foot into me jewels, and took off runnin’, givin’ out about the b*stard I am. Oh, sorry about that wee slip. Never saw ‘em after that. It’s been three years. No doubt he’s a man now. Since I had nobody to look after, I got drunker than ever. That is, until I woke up in straps in hospital a month ago. They said I was lyin’ on the street in a bad way. Almost croaked, I did. T’was weeks before I opened me eyes. They had to strap me down because I was gone in the head when the whiskey was comin’ out of me. Took all that to make me see what I git I am. I see clear now what a worthless fool I am. I had i'tall, and I threw i'tall away. All because of that drink.”
“Now my son,” admonishes the priest. “Ye can’t blame i’tall on the drink. The drink only has the power we give it. You had a choice, and ye made it. A bad choice, but a choice nonetheless. But, we are all human, and as humans, we are prone to sin. The question is, are ye truly sorry for all ye did because ye chose to drink, and are ye ready to change yer life to live the way our Lord wants ye to?”
“Aye, Father, I am. I’ve never been sorry for anything else in me life.”
“Then this is yer penance, John Sutton. First, have ye a rosary?”
“No, but I still have me Mary’s.”
“Grand. You will say 5 rosaries and fast for two days. Say the rosaries at yer late wife’s grave. Three, if ye can. Then, ye will go and look for Sonny. If ye find him, ye will try to make amends. If he is still living on the street, ye will buy him new clothes and take him back home—if he’ll go. Then, ye will find out who adopted yer children and go to locate them. Try to make amends with them also. If they are all adopted, it will be too late to take them back, but ye can still try to be in their lives and try to reunite them. Next, save as much money as ye can and buy a nice, very nice, headstone for Mary. The nicest ye can afford. You will also start coming to Mass again and report to me every week at this same time. Finally, never drink alcohol again. Not one drop. Don’t even go near the pub, and stay away with anyone ye ever drank with. You’ve been given a second chance to set things right. Take it, my son. Are ye willing to accept yer penance?”
“Aye, Father.”
“Then, my son, heed this absolution: God, the Father of mercies through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. through the ministry of the Church may God give ye pardon and peace, and I absolve ye from yer sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Both men cross themselves.
“But Father, if I am forgiven, why do I still feel ashamed?”
“Because ye still must clear yer conscience. God loves and forgives ye, John Sutton. Now, ye must find it in yer heart to forgive yerself. And ye MUST ask forgiveness of those who sinned against–Mary and yer children.”
“And what if they won’t forgive me? What if they want to hate me forever.”
“We were all given free will, and that includes the free will to forgive or not. It is their choice to forgive or not, but they will not be free themselves until they forgive ye. All the same, the more a vessel is broken, the longer it takes to fix. I can’t speak for yer children, but I knew yer Mary well. I know she forgave ye even when she was dyin’. Whether they forgive ye or not, know that our Lord forgives ye. Yer covered in His blood, and there’s no sin too great for the Lord to forgive.”
“Yes, Father. My thanks to ye.”
“Go in peace, me son. And don’t forget to come back next week this time.”
“Yes, Father.”
John lingered a moment and then rose and left the confessional. He turned to the altar and stared intensely at its crucifix, noticing each detail. He genuflected and, feeling lighter than when he came, left the nave, entered the narthex, opened the heavy wooden doors, and walked out into the rare sunshine.
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