MIRIAM CONWAY ARRIVES at the Rectory about 1:45 p.m., out of breath and slightly disheveled. I invite her into my office and we sit down.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Father. I had a hard time getting the kids down for a nap. My mother doesn’t mind watching them but she prefers them to be settled first.”
“No problem at all,” I say, “So, what can I do for you?”
“I hope, forgive me,” she says, looking down at her hands.
“Well, I am in that business.”
“No,” Miriam says, shaking her head vigorously. “I mean, I don’t want you to hear my confession. Of course, it's not that I don’t want you to. It's just that I’ve already confessed this week. On Ash Wednesday. At the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in D.C. I always try to take the kids there on special days, even though it’s a trek, to, you
