Red light blackens as the narrow door creaks open an invitation to enter the sacramental space. Feet are hesitant to move into the void where I am stripped of my mask and my sins made known. I kneel The springs of the padding beneath me groan a song of neglect mimicking the ache of years in my bones. I cross myself before the closed window between me and my confessor. Sliding wood and the reminiscence of a face disguised by woven metal reveal I'm not alone. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned it's been far too long since I faced myself." Long enough for the paint to peel curls of white revealing brick. Long enough to forget how claustrophobic my secrets feel, how trapped, how small I am in this prettied closet. I have come to unburden this heart of a load to heavy to carry further.
We become saints slowly, and often in the most ordinary of ways.