Last night, a homeless man sought shelter within our convent walls. Out of charity, we gave him a small room and a set of fresh clothes, asking nothing in return but a quiet night’s rest.
Later, in the confessional, the first nun approached, her voice trembling.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she whispered. “While he was changing, I… I must confess… I peeked through the keyhole. And I stared—longingly—at his… at his manhood.”
The priest sighed gently, folding his hands with practiced calm.
“Do not be ashamed, my child. Say one Hail Mary, wash your eyes in the holy water, and all will be forgiven.”
Relieved, she stepped aside. Then the second nun came forward, eyes fixed on the floor, cheeks burning.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I… I crept into his room… and I held his manhood in my hand.”
The priest blinked, clearly startled, but he steadied himself and spoke softly.
“Do not be ashamed, my child. Say one Hail Mary, wash your hands in the holy water, and all will be forgiven.”
Before the third nun could open her mouth, chaos erupted. The fourth nun suddenly shoved past her, desperation written all over her face. The third nun shoved back just as hard. Habits swished, veils slipped, and the two wrestled awkwardly in front of the stunned priest.
“Sisters! Stop this at once!” the priest roared. “What has come over you?!”
The fourth nun, red-faced and frantic, pointed at the third nun and shouted,
“I want to gargle the holy water before she washes her ass in it!”
