Perhaps it was the Irish in her, but Mom was a devout Catholic and she was intent on making sure that we all honored the lord and his teachings.  We never ate meat on Friday, we said the rosary during lent and we all went to Catholic school where the nuns reinforced God’s word.

Catholic school covered the basics, like most schools do.  But unlike our counterparts at public school, we also spent a great deal of time studying the Catechism, the teachings of the church. 

The messages reinforced that Jesus was a kind and loving man, who understand temptation and was willing to forgive our sins if contrition was heartfelt.  Conveniently, there was an opportunity every week to enter the confessional and tell the priest how sorry you were for any transgressions..

Normally, a weekly visit to the priest was not necessary for a ten-year-old.  After all, how many sins can a ten-year old actually commit?  I pretty much went once a month, mostly because Mom made me, until something happened that made me doubt everything.

We were studying the difference between mortal sin and venial sin. For those of you not in the know, mortal sin is ‘go to hell worthy’ and venial sin mostly requires a small penance and a promise to do better. The end of the lesson on sin warned about complacency.  In fact, complacency was a sin in and of itself.  We were advised that God knew when we were ignoring our sinful ways.  God knew when we were understating our mistakes.  God knew and, on occasion, God let you know, that he was watching.

That was unsettling, very unsettling.  What if I was guilty of complacency?  What if I made light of my sins?  What if God was not happy with me?  These were deep thoughts, that for some reason, I kept to myself. I was a little bit scared, and perhaps a little bit ashamed of my possible sinfulness.  I needed time to think.

And then, the next night it happened. I had taken a bath and was toweling off, when I spotted it.  A small dark ‘something’ clinging to my navel.  With some work, I managed to extricate it from my bellybutton.  As I examined it more closely a terrible thought came to mind. What if this was a sign?  What if God was trying to tell me something?  What if this foreign object was a symbol of my sins?  Of course, that was it!  I had a dark spot on my soul that I had failed to confess, and God was letting me know that He knew.

As I dressed, I wracked my brain for the horrendous deed that I must have done.  Finally, it came to me.  I had lied to my mother.  I had taken the last jelly doughnut, hidden in the backyard to eat it, and then claimed ignorance when she asked me about it.  God saw it all!

The next day I was first in line at the confessional, shaking with trepidation.  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

“Please continue, Child,” responded Father.

I shared the horror of my ways, expecting a serious penance.  Kindly, Father directed me to never lie again and to say ten Hail Mary’s and ten Our Father’s when I left the confessional.

I promised myself to do better but God was not done watching me.  I took to inspecting my naval nightly, looking for those small dark symbols of sin and, more often than not, I would find one.   Each time I would contemplate what might have led to the message in my navel.  Every Friday I would find myself in the confessional asking for forgiveness and seeking penance.

It was after three or four weeks that Father figured out I might have taken the catechism lessons a little too seriously.  It was a tricky situation for him.  He didn’t want to undermine the teaching of the Nuns, but he knew that I needed a little help.

With some prompting I spilled the whole story. I told him about the signs in my navel and I how I was sure it was God’s way of warning me.  To his credit, he listened closely and then offered advice that has served me well my entire life.

“Sometimes,” Father said thoughtfully, “we place importance on things that have little importance.  We might be scared, or worried or confused. We look for a sign that tells us what to do, when we have doubts. Perhaps you felt a bit guilty about lying to your mom or fighting with your brother and you needed some encouragement to tell the truth.”

“God doesn’t always need to intervene, in fact God seldom needs to intervene.  He generally trusts us to figure things out.”

That was a big thought, but one that stuck with me.  It helped me to quit confusing the lint in my bellybutton with divine intervention. It also taught me that God didn’t need to tell me when I’d done something wrong.  I would know it all on my own.