Sanctuary

Dr Laura says that my bedroom should be a beautiful sanctuary. I couldn't agree more. But I don't know what I'd do with the piles of junk on our dressers, or how I'd justify the expense of a not-really-necessary nightstand to replace the Walmart barstool I used as a ladder to the top bunk in college which now stands on my side of the bed, or where I'd put the sewing machine that I'm going to start using any day now. I hope our marriage survives.

The bathroom? Ha! Not only is it impossible to convince my dear children that privacy is the nicest thing they could offer me while I'm in this room with the charmingly broken doorknob, but how would I dry off without a preschooler to bring me a new towel when I've stupidly tossed the old one in the laundry without replacing it?

Church, of course, is sanctuary by definition. And yet, as we've discussed before in this cyberspace, everyone with kids is on vocational call even during that hour. I've always got someone's arms to pin down when the chalice is within striking distance. And at home, too, personal piety is sacred only in a technical sense. If someone starts crying mid-petition, it's the petition (for better or worse) that gets put on hold.

But the confessional. There is a true sanctuary. No toddler can come crashing through that door. I am so thankful for my wonderful husband who gets me to confession as regularly as possible, despite the inconvenience to him, with additional sessions whenever I request them. He sees to it that my time there is completely uninterrupted and as long as I need it to be. And need I mention that the comfort of Holy Absolution is rather singular?