A little boy named Tommy went to church with his grandmother every Sunday.
One day, she told him it was time for his very first confession.
She explained, “You go into that small booth, tell the priest your sins, and he’ll forgive you.”
Tommy was nervous, but he agreed.
He stepped into the confessional, sat down, and the priest slid open the little window.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Tommy whispered.
The priest smiled gently. “Go ahead, my son. What have you done?”
Tommy took a deep breath.
“Well… I stole a pencil from school… I said a bad word… and I lied to my mom.”
The priest nodded. “That’s not too serious. Anything else?”
Tommy thought for a moment.
“Umm… oh! I threw my sister’s Barbie out the window and told her it ran away.”
The priest chuckled. “Anything more?”
Tommy scratched his head.
“Oh! And last night, I put toothpaste on Grandpa’s dentures while he was sleeping.”
The priest tried hard not to laugh.
“Alright, my son. Say three Hail Marys and try to behave better.”
Tommy nodded proudly and walked out of the booth.
Grandma smiled. “How did it go?”
Tommy grinned from ear to ear.
“Piece of cake, Grandma… but I don’t think the guy behind the screen knows half the stuff I’ve done!”
⸻
Later, Tommy’s mother told him she couldn’t afford a new bike, but suggested he write a letter to Jesus promising to be good. Maybe then Jesus would help him get one.
So the boy sat down and started writing:
“Dear Jesus, I promise to be good for one year…”
He frowned, crossed it out, and wrote:
“Dear Jesus, I promise to be good for one month…”
Still unhappy, he crossed that out too:
“Dear Jesus, I promise to be good for one week…”
Frustrated, he tore up the paper and went for a walk.
Passing the local church, he saw a nativity scene.
When no one was watching, he grabbed the figure of Mary, hid it under his coat, and ran home.
Then he wrote a new letter:
“Dear Jesus, if you ever want to see your mother again…”
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At another time, the same little boy attended his first wedding.
After the ceremony, his cousin asked, “How many women can a man marry?”
“Sixteen,” the boy answered confidently.
His cousin stared, amazed. “How do you know that?”
“Easy,” the boy said.
“You just add it up like the Bishop said:
4 better, 4 worse, 4 richer, 4 poorer.”
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