At a dinner party recently, the host was telling us all about his aging mother and how, last spring, when she became very ill, the priest was called.
Sitting close beside the hospital bed, the priest asked her if she would like him to hear her confession. “Father”, she whispered,”I’ve done my best”.
This reminds me of a poem I read in one of the Louise Penny mysteries I was inhaling all summer. An excerpt from Margaret Atwood’s Up…
You’re lying on your deathbed,
You have one hour to live.
Who it is, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?
