The lonely priest sat behind the curtain in the confessional, praying a parishioner would come to confess and receive the sacrament of reconciliation. Every Saturday afternoon in his village in the hills of Tuscany, he sat. He could hear the wind, which had been blowing since early that morning.

Some Saturdays a few old women would climb the steep hill that led to the church to confess sins that weren’t really sins. Sometimes, they revealed sins committed, or perhaps, imagined, when they were young. He gave them penance to say, but only because they expected it. “Say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys,” he would whisper.

He looked at his ancient windup watch and sighed. He must sit another forty-five minutes in his tiny space with the dark screened, windowed booths on either side of him.  Until a few years ago, he used to sit in one of the church pews until someone came. During the summer months, he’d step outside the church for a moment to gaze at the hills and vineyards in the distance. It gave him a chance for a quick smoke.

But one morning, after mass, almost a year ago now, one of the few men who came every Sunday, pulled him aside. It was Nunzio D’Alessandro. The village’s residents regarded this man as a leader; someone they could trust. “Father, when we come to church on Saturday for confession, we drag our feet, reluctant to confess our failures.  But when you see our faces beforehand, the burden is too much for some of us to bear,” the man said. A younger man, he was dressed in his one black suit, white shirt and unfashionable, well-worn tie. “Perhaps you will say, ‘But I’ve known all of you long enough to recognize your voices.’”

The priest smiled in acknowledgement. “Yes, I do know your voices, but it is not for me to judge you. I am called by the Lord to forgive your sins.” He’d spoken with the man many times over the years, certainly enough to know he had never heard his confession.

The man hesitated for a moment, pulling the long hairs of his dark mustache “Even so, Father, I’m sure you’ve noticed that some of us come to church on Saturday afternoon, say a prayer, or light a candle and leave without confessing.”

“Because I’ve seen your face?”

“Precisely, some of us don’t even come to light a candle anymore.”

After that, the priest sat behind the curtain in the confessional from 3:00 to 4:30 every Saturday afternoon, still hearing the same two or three confessions he’d always heard. When he felt lonely, he meditated, focusing on his relationship with God. His concentration broke, of course, every time he heard what sounded like a parishioner entering the church.

Occasionally, he felt foolish sitting alone, just waiting. Why didn’t they come, now that he was hidden? Would a new priest, unfamiliar with the parish attract more people? And did they really need anonymity to ask for forgiveness? Maybe, he thought, I should trade with Father Benedetto from the San Casciano parish. Would the Bishop approve?   

The wind picked up again and he heard the sound of rain singing on the roof. He caught himself thinking about what he might have for dinner that evening, a welcome but untimely thought.

At 4:25, he started to remove the stole from around his neck. Just then, someone entered the confessional. A man, who appeared to be out of breath, said, “Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been nine years since my last confession.”

Naturally, the priest recognized the man’s voice. It was the very parishioner who had warned him about allowing himself to be seen by his parishioners prior to confession.

The priest listened intently to the man’s heartfelt words as he poured out his sins. The rain was coming down harder than before, so hard, that it made it difficult to understand what the man was saying. When the man finished, silent now save his labored breath, the priest offered him encouragement, gave him penitential prayers to say, and granted absolution.

The man left the confessional. The priest could hear him walking. He heard him sit in one of the nearby pews and place the kneeler on the floor. Confession was over now, it was 4:30. But the priest remained seated in his booth, granting the man privacy. He was happy now. The mayor was a leader.

Next Saturday, there would more parishioners. He said a prayer of thanksgiving.