Confessing is a humbling act. One I'm not too excited to proceed with in an online blog.
But it's also an act of trust, surrender, and freedom.
So here goes.
I'm a very guarded person and keep my true thoughts and feelings locked tight. I can't really figure out why. It just is. A lot of times I feel like a ship passing through the night. I like to pull my binoculars out and watch the passing boats. I'll even bump up next to a ship and ask lots of questions. But my hull is pretty thick.
The exception to this rule is my transparent vulnerability on paper or through keystroke. It's when I'm alone with my thoughts with time to ponder, re-write, and choose the perfect words, I am most myself. I will let others take a peek inside. I can be honest and bare.
The other exception is Ryan. He's got his hands full of my real-ness and does not lack any vulnerability on my part. In response I receive many eye rolls -- I'm pretty dramatic -- and lots of tender smiles. And that's just what I need.
I don't like other people to see me cry.
It's hard to admit defeat.
I have quite a high opinion of myself. So I need a dose of realism now and then.
I am opinion-less on many "hot topic issues" of the day. I guess you could say I'm lukewarm in that regard. Or I just like to sit on fences. But really, I can see many points of view -- usually the sides of a debate have wonderful, logical, convincing arguments. I can nod my head in many directions. I can also shake my head in many directions too. I'm not a fan of extremists.
I smile and nod or say, "interesting" when I don't know how to respond to something.
I'm not quick on my feet, conversation wise. I need time to think and mull and ponder. (another reason I appreciate the art of writing . . )
I'm not a very good friend. Friendship takes a lot of work, and most of the time I'm too lazy. I appreciate easy friendships, but I know I should do more.
I don't put my family first. My heart hurts for the underdog . . . and I'll set aside my family to care for someone who needs it more. (But I hope that I'll teach my children to love and serve their neighbor in the process . . . life isn't all about us.)
I believe in work before play. But I wish it was the other way around.
Even in my confessions, I notice I try to justify my actions. This is probably because I'm a perfectionist. But a lazy perfectionist who is ok with leaving something less than perfect . . . (see? I did it again.)
And so, since I'm a sinful person, my confession is far from perfect or complete.
And I finish with a slightly odd "weirdness" sensation in my belly creeping up into my chest.
Which will probably never go away . . . until the forgiveness part is complete.
Isn't that just life?
Or, I guess I should say, isn't that just forgiveness?
