Cardboard and Confession

Find out why that pile of cardboard in the garage is just the reminder Sarah Reinhard needs to send her to Confession.

It begins innocently enough. 

A shipment. A box. 

Oh, the joy. The excitement. The leftover cardboard! 

Turns out, I have not been in the season of recycling, what with not being able to put it out at the curb in the middle of the cornfield I live in and all the other obligations and priorities I have. 

Some may call this missed opportunity. I have called it a future chance to save the world. 

The box, as it turns out, is too large for the garbage can, and if I put it behind the can, my young trash helpers will likely miss it on their trek to take the cans out to the road. 

Thus, I do what any self-respecting person in my position with my exact mindset would do: I put it in the garage, by the back door. 

As I see that broken-down cardboard on my way out multiple times a day, my eco-minded voice pipes up. 

“Surely, now is the right time to start recycling! It is only a short 20-minute drive! You can listen to [insert podcast]! It will be easy!” 

Of course! I can make a pile of the cardboard that comes through our home like manna from on high! I can break it down, and then I can do the responsible thing and drive to the local recycling center with it. 

How hard can it be? 

That first broken-down box is soon joined by a second, maybe even the same day. 

And that’s all it takes for my young assistants to notice what I’ve done. The pile soon — perhaps even as soon as a few hours later — becomes a heap of … is that TRASH? In my pristine and organized broken-down cardboard pile? 

Within weeks, my vision has become a leaning tower of empty boxes, with some plastic bags peeking out here and there. When I don’t make it to the recycling center (approximately nine out of ten times), the cardboard meets its end at the end of the road or in a burn pile behind the house. 

A wiser woman than I am would learn her lesson and not repeat this scenario frequently enough for it to become a bit of a household cliché. 

A spiritual parallel 

It’s not so different in my spiritual life. I like to think I’ve become more realistic with age and experience. 

I see that opportunity to improve. 

So I take it. OF COURSE I take it. 

I jump all the way in. I begin the prayer practice, the new reading, the special mindset. 

And then… 

I don’t mean to slip. (Do we ever?) 

And yet, I do. 

But it’s not a big deal, right? Just a small thing.  

I pile it by the back door of my soul. 

Little by little — sometimes even the same day! — more sins get piled onto it. Before long, there’s a heap and it’s quite unsightly. I can feel the weight of it. 

It gets so bad, I start looking up the Confession times at my local parish, trying to figure out how to make it without making a special appointment. 

Off to Confession 

Last week, I was in Confession for the same old thing. Again. 

The priest — the face of Christ — was so merciful. The penance was ridiculously easy, a reminder that I can’t earn my way to forgiveness. 

Confession requires the kind of regular workout that I can excel at and put aside, often in the same breath. 

I know there’s a lot wrong with me. Don’t even get me started. I can take myself down a notch without even breaking into a sweat. 

That makes it even harder, to be honest, to look at the merciful, loving face of Christ and admit that I did this thing. Again.  

I bring my hulking pile of sin, and He doesn’t even flinch. He knows how bad it is, and how ridiculous, and how much better I should do. 

He’s so understanding. He is the opposite of how I am with myself. His gentle listening, His understanding countenance, his quiet acceptance — they’re my undoing. 

Who is this guy? What did I do to deserve this? 

Not. A. Thing. 

That’s the way it is with Confession. Every single time. 

You’d think I would learn, and that it wouldn’t take an embarrassing pile to get me to duck in the back door of the parish center on a Saturday afternoon. 

As I walked back into the house, freshly forgiven for that same darn thing, I spotted an empty shipping box in the garage. 

“I should break that down …” 

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Copyright 2025 Sarah Reinhard
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