A man with a nagging secret couldn't keep it any longer. In the confessional, he admitted that for years he had been stealing building supplies from the lumberyard where he

A man with a nagging secret couldn't keep it any longer. In the confessional, he admitted that for years he had been stealing building supplies from the lumberyard where he worked. He'd been pilfering everything: planks, nails, bags of cement, even entire rolls of insulation. His conscience, apparently, had finally decided to stage a full-blown rebellion.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," the man mumbled, his voice muffled by the screen. "It's been… oh, it's been about ten years since my last confession, and I've got a whopper this time. I've been systematically liberating lumber, bricks, and even a few industrial-sized spools of electrical wire from my employer, Mr. Henderson's 'Bountiful Building Supplies.'"

The priest, a kind and patient man, sighed. He'd heard it all before – petty theft, minor grievances, the occasional sheepish admission of secretly swapping sugar for salt in a rival's coffee. But sustained, industrial-scale pilfering of building materials was a new one.

"My son," the priest began gently, "this is indeed a serious matter. Have you made any attempts to repay Mr. Henderson, or perhaps return the stolen goods?"

"Oh, I've tried, Father, I've tried!" the man wailed dramatically. "But it's just so much! Every time I look at my garage, it looks like a small, self-contained hardware store! And my backyard shed? It's practically a cathedral of pilfered plywood! I'm pretty sure I could build a small village with what I've got stashed away."

The priest cleared his throat. "Well, my son, repentance requires action. You must do what you can to make amends. Perhaps anonymously return some of the less… bulky items?"

"That's the problem, Father!" the man exclaimed, his voice rising in panic. "It's not just that I stole them! I… I built things with them!"

The priest paused. "Built things, my son? Like what?"

"Well," the man confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper, "first, it was just a new dog house. Then a bigger shed. Then I added a sunroom to my house. Then a second story. Then a third! My house is now the tallest building on the block! My wife keeps asking why we need so many extra bathrooms! And my neighbors are starting to give me strange looks, especially since my house now has a working forklift inside it for moving my 'inventory'!"

The priest was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. "My son," he said, "for your penance, I want you to go home, and for every piece of lumber, every nail, every single item you stole, I want you to write 'I am sorry, Mr. Henderson' on it. And then, my son, I want you to bring it all back to the lumberyard."

There was another silence. Then, the man's voice, small and defeated, came through the screen. "Father... that's going to take me until next Christmas. And also... what do I tell my wife about the indoor forklift?"

The priest just sighed. "Start with the 'I am sorry's,' my son. The forklift, I fear, is a penance for a whole other confession."