The necklace — a choker with a velvet strap and a single brilliant faux sapphire — sat within reach, right at the edge of the open desk. I wanted that necklace; I had to have it, the desire for it so strong it made my stomach clench. So while my third grade teacher bent low over my classmate’s shoulder, I quickly reached behind their backs, slid my fingers into the open desk and then slipped the velvet strand into the front pocket of my corduroys.
Regret rushed in almost instantly as the thrilling high of holding the treasure in my hand crashed into gut-wrenching fear. Stealing, I knew, was a ticket straight to hell. I’d broken one of the Ten Commandments, had committed a mortal sin, and there was only one way out of the hell fires for which I was bound: confession.