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The Return
Going back to the confessional for the first time in over two decades is quite the experience— almost like going for the first time as a child.
That same mix of fear, excitement, and sorrow I felt as a third grader came flooding back.
You never forget that early memory: a mysterious, looming feeling that you're about to do something extraordinary. As a third grader, I didn’t have the words to describe it (I was a little older for my first reconciliation—but more on that later).
Whatever that feeling is, it’s probably a blend of fear, anticipation, and sorrow for the sins you've realized you’ve committed against God.
St. Mary’s, Mount Morris
My first reconciliation took place at St. Mary’s in Mount Morris, Michigan. Our entire catechism class lined up outside the confessional. It was a large, wooden space with two side doors for penitents. Inside, you’d kneel before a screen. When Father Ray Urbanek was ready, he’d slide it open. You couldn’t see him—but he could hear you.
I always imagined there was some silent signal letting him know I was ready. In front of me was a laminated guide to help navigate the sacrament.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over 20 years since my last confession.”
The words echoed. The emotion surged.
That old feeling from childhood? Still there.
What I Carried
Now, I was confessing decades of sin.
In the military, we called that the pucker factor—when your body’s overwhelmed by adrenaline and emotion. The sins that I have committed over 20 years will finally be acknowledged. The shame I have hid from and refused to acknowledge will now be brought forth to God. That image of Adam and Eve hiding in the garden comes to mind the best.
“Deep down, you know God will forgive you… but you also know you’re not worthy of such love.”
I didn’t leave the Church entirely by choice. Life shifted. My grandpa who started going back to Mass with us at St. Mary’s passed away, The Twin Towers came crashing down, and my parents began attending Faith United General Baptist Church with my stepdad’s mom, who had moved from Texas. I was around 12. Some people like to blame the death of Harambe for sudden shift in the world— I blame the Dale Earnhardt wreck which happened the same month my Grandpa died.
I remember Jim didn’t attend Mass with us. He only went on days of importance, such as my baptism or first communion. So, attending a church he was willing to go to mattered. I made friends there. Good ones. A youth group that loved God, played Christian rock (Kutless was my jam), and gathered at a place called The Alley—a faith-based Friday hangout spot. It was edgy, but It felt authentic. People brought other secular friends to the hangout— so it was a blend of both worlds. It felt like what my soul needed.
Shame in the Sanctuary
Before I left for the Army, the church held a graduation send-off. My mom had to pick me up from a friend’s house because I hadn’t come home the night before. We were celebrating our graduation from High school, I’d blacked out—polishing off a bottle of Jack Daniels. At church they were so proud of who I was and what I was going off to do in the military.
They clapped for me, cheered for me… and I couldn’t walk straight.
There I was, walking up the steps to the stage, hiding behind a hat and wearing the same clothes from the night prior, probably covered in grass stains. My youth pastor handed me a book:
The Purpose Driven Life.
I didn’t feel driven. I felt ashamed. How selfish.
War and the Word
Fast forward: Ramadi, Iraq, about a year later. I was in a bunker during a mortar barrage. Wearing “Full Battle Rattle”.
When the dust cleared, I planned to change into PTs, grab chow, and call my wife—my new wife, stationed in Germany. We didn’t even get a chance to be married before I left for Iraq. I remember the call I got saying I was leaving right after the wedding.
Iraq is interesting. You are surrounded by the ancient world with modern technology. The unforgiving sun breathing down your neck, death all around you while patrolling next to the Euphrates. It seems like a place furthest from God, but so close as well. I remember watching people swim and bathe in a river that biblically flows from the Garden of Eden.
I’ve been in Iraq for about 4 or 5 months now and the routines were starting to set in. It gets to the point where you don’t even bother crawling out of bed when the next mortar hits. The jokes become darker and morbid. Who cares if it hits you in the bed or the bunker… at least I die somewhat comfortable. All you truly care about is getting your job done and calling home.
The next phone call, however, would be different:
“Aaron… I’m pregnant.”
She’d skipped PT. She was at a Sergeant’s house that she was calling by his first name. And now she was pregnant.
I lost it.
I was kicked out of the phone center for smashing the receiver against the counter. Here I am in a place where people are trying to kill me, life feels like it’s almost stopped for me, and she’s in Germany expecting a child that isn’t mine. I stormed back to my CHU— a metal box that is luxurious compared to the old blown out Iraqi barracks we were sleeping in with sandbags for windows, and sand fleas crawling through our sleeping bags. I pulled out my green Army logo embossed Bible, and for the first time in a long time—I cried out to God.
“Show me what I need to do.”
I opened that Bible, and it fell on Ephesians 4:32:
“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”
The Joseph Moment
“Even if that means I have someone else’s baby?”
Her voice cracked.
“Yes. And I will raise that baby as my own.”
I imagined how St. Joseph must have felt. No words in Scripture—but surely, his heart had something to say. I mean he was listed by an angel for comfort in this matter… maybe that should’ve been my first sign— no angel appeared to me.
I called her back. I apologized. We agreed to meet in Michigan and try to rebuild during my R&R at the end of September. But then—she had a miscarriage.
My heart broke for her. But in my selfishness, I saw it as a sign. Maybe God was wiping the slate clean.
The Second Goodbye
When I finally got home for R&R from Iraq, I went straight to my in-laws' house. My father-in-law sat on the back porch smoking a cigar and poured me a shot of whiskey.
“Where is she?”
“She’s in Texas.”
She left. Again. With the same Sergeant. Despite our promises. Despite everything. I pleaded with her to return to Michigan. I told her I was buying an airline ticket for her… she never returned.
Back in Iraq, as Ramadan began, I returned to my tour from R&R… I first called my mom to let her know I made it safely. Just before a litany of mortars came crashing around my building. When things calmed down again, I called my wife… She was still my wife after-all— even if she didn’t meet me in Michigan. She delivered another blow:
“I’m pregnant…again.”
I climbed to the top of Signal Hill, ripped my gold wedding band off, and launched it into the sands of Ramadi. Hopefully to be lost forever. How naive I was to think it would work.
That verse I read in grief wasn’t the solution to my problems. I was in a Biblical location, where God spoke to his people. Where Abraham counted the stars, where the soil called out with Abel’s blood… I wasn’t one of God’s chosen. I was the abandoned.
God doesn’t care about me.
I believed it.
Years of Numbness
I lost brothers in war and watched others lose to themselves. Relationships were fleeting— Trust evaporated. Nights blurred. Writing helped. Whiskey helped more.
Because God didn’t.
Losing friends to combat and to suicide, sometimes in the same year. They don’t really talk about all of these changes when you start the enlistment process. I mean I read about it, a little bit, in Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. I even wrote about it in my story Snapshots of War. There is just isn’t words that can put into play that describe the feelings a Soldier feels when coming home— I tried.
I spent another decade drowning in sin and my own selfish desires, before I remarried—a devout Lutheran woman with a baby and a desire to get me to Heaven.
We agreed to attend church together—but not a Lutheran one. Something more familiar. She agreed because of the same ideas I had when I left the Catholic Church; going to any church was better than the alternative. Eventually, we helped plant a non-denominational church location. I worked the tech booth, she worked in the back with the kids. The first year of that launch was rough… it launched just days after Michigan shutdown over Covid. Our first service I held a cellphone feet away from the pastor to stream on Facebook Live. Nothing mattered more than spreading the Gospel.
I was on the path.
But I wasn’t there yet.
The Brick That Changed Everything
“May God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Over two decades of wandering… and through those words, God whispered:
“Welcome home.”
The weight was lifted.
I walked out of that confessional feeling like a third grader again…
Full of grace and grateful for Christ’s passion. Though I am not worthy of His mercy, I am reminded that I am loved, and I am not abandoned.
Your Turn
How long has it been since your last confession?
Do you feel that weight?
Have you ever been to confession at all?
If it’s been a while… I implore you:
Go. This week. Don’t wait.
God is waiting to say, “Welcome home.”