Seven Little Confessions

 

When I was a child and got into a little trouble, my Aunt Joyce told me, “Confession is good for the soul.”   That was over forty years ago, and I’ve been surprising people with my candor ever since. Why should today be any different? 

1.      My husband brings me coffee from freshly ground beans every morning.  When he is gone overnight, I tote the programmable coffee maker into the bedroom and set it on my desk across the room, so I can wake up to the smell of coffee brewing.  I’m not lazy. I just prefer to use my energy for more important activities, like laughing and watching Monk reruns.

 

2.      I spoil my four cats beyond reason, talking baby talk to them and letting them climb wherever they want. They even jump on the bathroom counter and drink water from a cup there. I tell each of them that they’re my favorite one. Please don’t let the cat out of the bag and snitch on me.

3.      We lived in Illinois six years before I shoveled snow the first time, and that was only because my husband had broken his ankle.  I wanted to give him the opportunity to show off his upper body muscles, so I let him shovel all the years before.

4.       I love to slide across the kitchen floor in my stocking feet. You too? I knew it!

 

5.      I am not fond of cooking. My favorite cookbook is one containing recipes of three, four, and five ingredients. My husband does most of the cooking at our house, which is fine with me.

6.      My favorite sport is dining out. Shopping comes a close second. My favorite items to shop for are gift cards for restaurants.

7.      My hair is not this bright red; its natural color is auburn, which went bye-bye when I was thirty-five.  My youngest granddaughter’s hair is the same shade. YES!

Ahhh . . .  that does feel better.  Aunt Joyce was right.

Which, if any, of the above list can you relate to?

 

 

Seven Little Confessions

When I was fourteen and got into a little trouble, my Aunt Joyce told me, “Confession is good for the soul.”   That was over forty years ago, and I’ve been surprising people with my candor ever since. Why should today be any different? 

1.      My husband brings me coffee from freshly ground beans every morning.  When he is gone overnight, I tote the programmable coffee maker into the bedroom and set it on my desk across the room, so I can wake up to the smell of coffee brewing.  I’m not lazy. I just prefer to use my energy for more important activities, like laughing and watching Monk reruns.

2.      I spoil my four cats beyond reason, talking baby talk to them and letting them climb wherever they want. They even jump on the bathroom counter and drink water from a cup there. I tell each of them that they’re my favorite one. Please don’t let the cat out of the bag and snitch on me.

3.      We lived in Illinois six years before I shoveled snow the first time, and that was only because my husband had broken his ankle.  I wanted to give him the opportunity to show off his upper body muscles, so I let him shovel the years before.

4.       I love to slide across the kitchen floor in my stocking feet. You too? I knew it!

 

 

5.      I am not fond of cooking. My favorite cookbook is one containing recipes of three, four, and five ingredients. My husband does most of the cooking at our house, which is fine with me.

6.      My favorite sport is dining out. Shopping comes a close second. My favorite items to shop for are gift cards for restaurants.

Our youngest grand--a redhead!

 

7.      My hair is not this bright red; its natural color is auburn, which went bye-bye when I was thirty-five.  My youngest granddaughter’s hair is the same shade. YES!

Ahhh . . .  that does feel better.  Aunt Joyce was right.

 

Confession

I have a confession to make: I am impatient. It's not my worst fault, but it's up there in the top three, I'm afraid. 

If a customer takes fifteen minutes to tell me why they need marblized ivory paper in a strange size for their wedding announcements, I smile and nod, but my mind wanders to the list of 456 things I have to do, and I grit my teeth while I think, would you please hurry up and just order the paper before I scream?

If my husband is explaining why he made a particular choice of travel route, purchase at the grocery store, or Scripture for a sermon, I fake interest, but my brain goes to the article I'm working on while I think, I trust your judgment, honey; I don't need a three-part outline every time you pick peaches instead of plums.

I am a very good actress. Most people have no inkling that while I listen, I'm in anguish over their long explanations or stories.

Because I genuinely love and like people, they must sense that I'm interested in them. Really. I am.

But I'm also big into not wasting time. And if I feel someone is wasting my time, I get agitated, irritated, even angry.

So now you know. One of my besetting sins. I hate it. I'm working on it. But it's still part of me. At least until Jesus comes to get me and He perfects me. I just hope He doesn't explain to me beforehand how He's going to do it...

Do you feel better when someone confesses a fault or sin, knowing you are not alone? Or does it make you uncomfortable, especially when it's online?

Confession of a Sensitive Writer

Hot topic disclaimer: You may only read this post if you promise not to become offended on my behalf and write my husband letters. You see, we have worked this whole issue out—mostly—and our boxing gloves rest safely in a grungy corner of the basement. I’d hate to have to bring them upstairs because someone misunderstood my motive in baring my soul today.


I believe what I’m about to confess may help some of you writers, singers, artists, dancers, and other creative types. It might even save your vocal chords from an argument, or your checkbook from divorce fees.

Are you ready? My husband does not like my writing.

Lest you think he’s a heartless, insensitive lout, I want to jump to his defense. He likes me, he’s proud of me, and cheers loudly whenever I publish an article or get an editing job. But, you see, we are very different.

Aha.

He is the intellectual, deep-thinker of the family who loves to research, analyze, and plan. He enjoys delving into historical background, studying word origins, and—yawn—perusing National Geographic articles.

I, on the other paw, love to invent witticisms, ramble through emotion-land, and make statements that some mistake for lies when in fact they are exaggerations and embellishments. Making our bed each morning is a discipline for me. I’d rather read, blog, or slide across the kitchen floor on my way to find Cookies & Cream bars for my breakfast.

My articles and books, which reflect my nutty personality, are too fluffy and touchy-feely for his taste. Too subjective, he'd say. And of course, I took this personally.

I’d cry, shout, and accuse him of not caring or not supporting my writing career. He’d deny it. It was ruining any joy I had in writing and publishing. Not to mention our lovely, 36-year relationship.

As I was washing dishes one day, this thought slapped me in the brain:

I don’t particularly enjoy his style of writing either. There is nothing wrong with it; it just doesn’t suit my personality. So, why can’t we accept each other’s differing tastes, and love one another for the unique creatures—I use this word loosely—that God made us?

Large sigh of relief.
I won’t pretend we put our boxing gloves away and never used them again. But that one little thought—now I realize it was the Holy Spirit—helped me to take this whole issue less seriously.

And that has made a HUGE difference in how I perceive my DH’s response—or lack of it—to my gift.

Now that you’ve heard my confession, how do you feel? Do you have someone in your life that you love very much, who just doesn’t get you, and your gifts? Can you decide to be friends anyway? I hope so.

Because we only own two pair of boxing gloves. And we're not sharing.

Dare I Admit This?

I hate to admit this, and I'm hoping some of you do it too, so I won't feel alone. Please tell me you do. And if you don't, I don't want to know. Because that would mean you're either a better person than me, or that I'm full of pride.

Are you ready for my confession? Turn your back so I won't be embarrassed to tell you...

As I'm reading, I sometimes think "this isn't very well-written. I could do better than this! How did this person get published? They must be the cousin of the editor's next-door neighbor's dog groomer."

I know, I know, who am I to criticize another's writing when I've not yet published a book? And, you're right. I shouldn't criticize. Not just writing, but anything or anyone.

But the more I learn how to do it right, the more noticeable the boo-boos are.

I think the craft books and conferences and writing blogs are meant to teach me to correct and improve my own writing, though. Not pick apart others' work.

So, I repent of my fault-finding. But it'd still make me feel better if I knew you did this, too.