The long Sunday confession line is finally coming to an end. The last parishioner approaches the priest – a very respectable-looking elderly woman – and begins from a safe distance:
“Father, I have sinned... Last week I felt jealous of my neighbor because her tomatoes grew better than mine. And on Friday I didn't finish my evening prayers. I skipped three prayers.”
The priest, resting his head on one hand, asks:
“My dear, what about your husband? Do you two ever argue?”
“Oh, goodness no, Father! We have complete harmony. We live in perfect peace. He's a very quiet man – never says a word against me.”
The priest suddenly perks up.
“Really? A perfect marriage? And how exactly did you manage that?”
“Well, it's simple. Right after our wedding I told him: ‘Vasya, if you ever try arguing with me, I can't be held responsible for what happens next. And just so you know, my frying pan is very heavy.’”
“And that was it?”
“That was it, Father. Thirty years of perfect Christian peace in the family!”
The priest sighed, draped his stole over her for the prayer of absolution, and whispered:
“Go in peace, my dear. And tell Vasia after thirty years of martyrdom, Heaven is awaiting him any day now.”
