A Fetching Time

She hadn't meant to cause any harm. She especially hadn't meant to upset the villagers, to bring shame to her family, to put distance between herself and her husband, or to bring on so many sleepless nights.

It wasn't supposed to become a distraction, or such an attraction. It was just a tale, not even a whole story. That's why she'd filled in a few of the blanks, stitched a few details into gaps in the time line. Now it had gathered its own steam, taken on a life of its own, and it was smothering her. What to do?

What to make of the looks people gave her as they drew back into narrow doorways to let her pass by as she walked in the square. They felt like daggers as her friends' eyes darted past her. Wanting, it seemed, to probe her face, but not wanting their eyes to meet hers. What to do?

It was only Tuesday. She couldn't wait for the priest to open the confessional on Saturday afternoon. She might even be dead by then. Oh, the weight of it all; pressing down on her neck, shoulders and back. It made her legs wobble. Her color was bad, probably due to taking too many short breaths. She couldn’t breathe right. It seemed that her heart had swelled in her chest, squeezing the places her lungs were supposed to occupy. Her heart was so heavy. It pushed down on her stomach. Now she could barely eat the crusts of bread she soaked in warm water mixed with olive oil and vinegar, just a dash of vinegar. Everything tasted so bitter lately. Even sweet bread had a sour taste. What to do?

She'd simply have to press Padre Giuseppe to hear her confession today, after the noon-time Angelus. He'd understand. He was a good priest.

It's a story my grandmother told about an old woman living in Italy who gossiped about a neighbor. Realizing her sin she confessed to the priest. The confessor said, "For your penance, take a down pillow up into the bell tower, cut it open and shake the feathers onto the town square, then go gather the feathers and return them to the pillow. When you've fetched all the feathers, now scattered as far as your gossip has flown, your sin will be forgiven."

Our religion tells us that this is a story about penance. It's really a story about repentance. Literally, the word repent means to drive back; to drive back to a point in time before you held that thought or did that deed, and then not take up the thought or commit the deed. To repent is to feel such remorse about a past thought or deed, that you change your mind and your ways.

Sometimes we use our religious language so casually and thoughtlessly that it loses its power to give shape and meaning to our lives. Lent is full of religious language: pray; fast; give alms; repent. But if these words don't gather the energies of our hearts and minds, if they roll off our tongues like so many tales of days gone by, then they lose the power of transforming grace deep-seated in God's holy Word.

Forty days. Enough time to recall that religious language, the Word of God, means to shape all our days, not just our Sundays. Forty days. Time enough to remember that the death and resurrection of Jesus is for our everyday. Lent. Time to experience a continuing death of the old and familiar. Time to be reborn again into new hope, new trust, and new love. Lent. Time to say what you mean and to mean what you say. Lent. Time to fetch the feathers.