tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26883902.post1354341658886803355..comments2024-03-25T11:09:41.538-04:00Comments on a minor friar blog: io ti assolvoBrother Charleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07780326836452864455noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26883902.post-74456448144784866522012-07-26T02:49:25.187-04:002012-07-26T02:49:25.187-04:00Br. Tom: drop another comment with your email; I w...Br. Tom: drop another comment with your email; I won't publish it.Brother Charleshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07780326836452864455noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26883902.post-6978182316443950812012-07-24T20:13:10.355-04:002012-07-24T20:13:10.355-04:00Sixty years ago, I was a teenage girl travelling w...Sixty years ago, I was a teenage girl travelling with my parents to visit relatives in Germany for the summer (their first visit since before WWII). One of the places we visited was Altoeting, a pilgrimage place in Bavaria.<br /> <br />Naturally, we wanted to go to Mass and Communion and that meant I had to confess in German. I was petrified! My German speech was rudimentary though I could understand the language quite well. Somehow, I struggled through it. Afterwards, the priest told my mother that she had a good daughter! (Methinks he did not understand my German Confession!!!) (chuckle)pennyantenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26883902.post-65916035359804770932012-07-24T10:02:40.359-04:002012-07-24T10:02:40.359-04:00Praying, dreaming and confessing in another langua...Praying, dreaming and confessing in another language changed the way I thought about my relationship with God. Forgive a little story:<br /><br />I remember on the Camino de Santiago there was an elderly priest who stood outside his church on a hill and waited for the pilgrims of the day to arrive. Once he had gathered them all in he announced that he would hear their confessions, it was a slow process, with many penitents, including myself, fumbling through the spanish language, but he was not in rush. He waited every day the same, always for the very last pilgrim to arrive and be confessed. Afterwards he celebrated mass, and then told everyone to come into the parish centre where his sister, also in her 80's had prepared garlic soup and bread. We sat on long tables and ate our meal together. Afterwards, he announced there would be night prayer and bed. It was the earliest night I had on pilgrimage, but no one was complaining. I guess we were trying to understand the grace of the God who put such a priest in such a place to listen to people make their confessions. I am sure the same thing applies to you in Rome when you get caught unawares by penitents on your journey.Cloisterhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01420935883178551476noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26883902.post-87280324082731785842012-07-24T07:30:41.775-04:002012-07-24T07:30:41.775-04:00One of our friars who lived for years in Rome told...One of our friars who lived for years in Rome told me that Italian confessions mostly consisted of women who tell the priest "Look at me, I do nothing, now my husband..."fr. Matt, OFM Conv.https://www.blogger.com/profile/12921148205787771042noreply@blogger.com