A man walks into a church, heads straight for the confessional, and sits down with a deep sigh. The priest, recognizing him as a regular but not overly devout parishioner, greets him gently.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the man begins. “It’s been a few months since my last confession.”
“Go on, my son. What do you need to confess?” the priest prompts.
The man hesitates for a moment before saying, “Well, Father, I used the F-word over the weekend.”
The priest nods knowingly. “Alright. Try to watch your language. Say three Hail Marys, and make an effort to be more mindful with your words.”
The man shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I appreciate that, Father, but I think you should hear why I said it.”
The priest, sensing a story coming, exhales and gestures for the man to continue.
“Well, I was playing golf with my buddies on Sunday instead of going to church.”
The priest gives a small sigh but remains patient. “And you got upset about that?”
“No, no, that wasn’t it. On the first tee, I stepped up, took my swing, and—I don’t know what happened—but I duck-hooked the drive way left, straight into the trees.”
The priest leans forward slightly. “And that’s when you swore?”
The man shakes his head. “No, not yet. See, when I walked up the fairway to find my ball, I noticed it had taken a lucky bounce off a tree and rolled right back into the middle of the fairway. Perfect position. I had a clear shot to the green.”
“That sounds like a fortunate break,” the priest says. “So when did you swear?”
“Well, just as I was about to take my shot, a squirrel darted out of nowhere, grabbed my ball in its mouth, and scurried up a tree.”
The priest’s eyebrows rise. “Ah, I see. That must’ve been frustrating. Is that when you swore?”
The man sighs. “No, Father, not yet. Because just then, out of nowhere, an eagle swooped down, grabbed the squirrel, and flew off with it!”
The priest, now intrigued despite himself, leans in. “Surely that’s when you said it.”
The man shakes his head again. “No, because as the eagle flew over the green, the squirrel, still wriggling, must have loosened its grip and let go of my golf ball.”
The priest is wide-eyed now. “And?”
“And the ball dropped from the sky, hit the green, and rolled to within five inches of the hole.”
The priest suddenly slaps his hands on his knees and exclaims, “Oh, for heaven’s sake—don’t tell me you missed the f***ing putt!”
For a moment, the confessional is silent. Then, the man and the priest both burst into laughter.
The priest shakes his head and smiles. “Alright, my son, I think we both need to say three Hail Marys after that one.”
The man laughs and nods. “Agreed, Father. And maybe I should also pray for better putting skills.”
The priest chuckles. “That might not be a bad idea. But next time, try to make it to church before the golf course.”
The man stands up, still smiling. “I’ll try, Father. But if miracles like that keep happening, I might have to reconsider where I do my Sunday praying.”
The priest laughs again and shakes his head. “Go in peace, my son. And work on that short game.”
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