Old Songs I Know by Heart

As far as my motives go, well, they are old songs that I know by heart, playing on the radio in the background. I hardly notice them, but I hear them nonetheless.

And I dance to their tune.

Sometimes I’m well into the routine before I recognize what’s playing. By then, I usually have an excellent explanation for what I’m doing.

I have had considerable practice.

There is a lovely older woman who helps me set up for our weekly fellowship meeting. Setting up is my commitment and my responsibility. She helps anyway, out of kindness.

Sometimes I’m running late.

That is a wonderfully accommodating expression, “running late.” It suggests effort. Motion. A woman struggling valiantly against circumstances.

Sometimes what it means is that I haven’t left yet.

I know this woman will be there. I know she will help. And sometimes I take advantage of that knowledge, allowing her kindness to absorb the consequences of my choices.

Then I arrive and explain.

Work. Traffic. Whatever seems to account for my arrival without requiring too close an examination of my departure.

And the words turn to ashes in my mouth as I speak them and look her in the eye.

She says nothing.

The truth is I showed up just as soon as I wanted to, not as soon as I could have.

I know the difference. I knew it before I started explaining. But somehow, while I was still on my way, my explanation sounded considerably better.

I want the freedom to arrive when it suits me and the reputation of someone who would never leave her with my responsibility. I would like her help, her affection, and her good opinion. Preferably without having to inconvenience myself.

It sounds rather unattractive when I put it that way.

No wonder I lead with traffic.

I used to think that recognizing a character defect would put me well on the way to being finished with it. Surely, once I understood what I was doing, I would stop.

An optimistic assessment of the available evidence.

The old ways are comfortable. I know how to arrange an account so that my part in it looks reasonable. I can do that almost without thinking.

Almost.

There is usually a little moment when I know what I’m leaving out.

And the behavior still offers something I want: a few more minutes to do as I please, followed by relief from admitting that I have been inconsiderate.

Small rewards, but apparently I have been willing to make someone else pay for them.

I love and respect this woman. I don’t want to use her kindness as extra room in my schedule.

Her silence leaves me with my own words. There is no accusation to answer, no correction to debate. I can’t get distracted by whether she has been fair to me.

She has been kind to me.

My love and respect for her did far more for my willingness to change than anything she could have said.

I wish willingness reliably carried over into the following week. It feels so convincing when it arrives.

Then Tuesday comes around again, and I am in the middle of something. There is one more thing I would like to finish. Leaving now is inconvenient. Leaving in a few minutes seems reasonable.

I know this song.

I don’t need to become exquisitely articulate about why I do this. I am already quite capable of talking about myself at length. There is a point at which another insight is just something else to finish before leaving the house.

Setting up the meeting is my commitment.

I can leave something unfinished. I can let departure be inconvenient. I can arrive in time to do what I said I would do, and enjoy her company without quietly relying on her to cover for me.

That seems a modest enough expression of love.

I hope I remember this next Tuesday.