Last Sunday, Harold skipped church to play golf with his buddies. It was a bright morning, the kind that makes you believe even the heavens might forgive you for missing a sermon.When Harold went to confession later that week, he looked genuinely guilty.“Forgive me, Father,” he said. “I used the F-word.”The priest sighed. “That’s not good, Harold. Say three Hail Marys and watch your language.”
Harold nodded, then hesitated. “But Father, don’t you want to know why I said it?”The priest folded his hands. “All right, go on.”“Well,” Harold began, “on the first tee, I hooked my drive way left into the trees.”“I see,” said the priest. “And that’s when you swore?”
Harold shook his head. “No, Father. When I walked up, I found my ball sitting perfectly on the fairway — best lie I’ve ever had in my life!”The priest smiled. “Ah, so you thanked God?”Harold looked down. “No, Father. That’s when my friend hit his ball… and it landed right on top of mine.”
