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When Scott and I were first getting to know each other almost 18 years ago, I was oddly adept at not reading between the lines. We were barely friends and talked on a very matter-of-fact level. There were no post-conversation guessing games like "I think he likes me."

I'm not sure why it was that way- maybe because he was a lean, mean, California machine and I was certainly no west coast girl "all tan and thin." Maybe it was because our worlds' couldn't have been more different, so the thought of the two colliding was too outlandish to even consider. I only heard the words that he said and never inferred any extra information. You know what I'm talking about.

So when Scott looked at me in the convenience store one night and said "I'd never want to hurt you Melissa," I looked back at him like he was a Who down in Whoville. "What in the world is he talking about," I thought to myself.

And since I hadn't been in the habit of reading between the lines, I almost fell over dead when Scott looked at me one day in the camp team van and said "If the Lord opened the door for me to marry you, I would-- and soon!"

I only wish I was still so poor at reading-between-the-lines. It's really been getting me into trouble lately. Like last week, for instance.

Scott and I both had activities on Saturday, so we had taken the boys to spend the night with their Uncle Brant about 45 minutes away. Scott's meeting was closest to Brant's house, so he said he would pick the boys up before he came home.

As I was leaving the house early Saturday morning, Scott asked me a few questions like "what time will you get done today?" and "something, something, maybe you could do that, something, something, something." I really can't remember what he said, but somehow I inferred that he might like for me to pick up the boys. Maybe it was the pang I felt from not being with my boys on a Saturday, or the difficulty I have in asking people (even my husband) for help. But there was a filter on my ears that was hearing Scott say "Melissa, I don't really want to pick up the boys—can you do it?"

So that afternoon, when I had finished my part of the triathalon (another story) and was halfway out to Uncle B's house, Scott called my cell phone. He wasn't happy with me.
"What are you doing, Melissa? I told you I would pick them up!" Here he was trying to give me a break, and I hadn't let him. I was too busy trying to have a nervous breakdown to hear what he didn't say. He didn't say "pick up the boys because I don't want to." He didn't say "It's your job to take care of the boys. I'm just the occasional babysitter." I had filled in his blanks and put words in his mouth. You think I'd already have James 1:19 memorized by now: "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry."

It's a new thing I'm going to try this week. I'm going to listen to what my husband says—not imagine what I think he said, or what I wish he'd said, or should have said, or shouldn't have said. I'm going to be quick to listen, and slow to speak.

Wow—this ought to be interesting.

"Inspiration For You" from Randy Mitchell

Honoring A Father