I hate being wrong. The only thing I hate more than being wrong is knowing that I’ve done something wrong.

This week I had to confront myself about something I’d done that was wrong. The tongue, you see, is a powerfully destructive instrument. When combined with a temper that is usually kept tightly under control, well, it’s not a pretty sight.

So, I lost my temper just before going on vacation, over something that I was actually justified in being upset about. If I had merely made my comments and moved on, without said temper being involved, all would be ok. Instead, I was angry and then vented after the situation, saying some unkind things.

Wrong, wrong, wrong behavior. 

And as often happens, not only did the person I vent to hear what I said, but in a literal application of sin-cannot-hide, so did the person I was venting about.

Several years ago (ok, perhaps several weeks ago, even), I would have made excuses for venting, pointing out where there was truth and where there wasn’t, etc. But Monday I realized that excuses don’t excuse wrong behavior. There’s nothing to be done except apologize for what was wrong and accept the consequences (in this case, a fractured relationship).

Just when I think I’m pretty ok as I am, I have a spectacular fall which reminds me that I’m still a sinful human, relying on God’s grace to get through another day.

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