A while back, a friend and I met for coffee. We chatted away about our families and life but towards the end of our time together, she began sharing with me about a personal issue. It wasn’t devastating but it definitely wasn’t something she’d want to tweet or post on her Facebook page. She had made a bad choice and because of it, a relationship had been severed. Openly she poured out all the details of how a few bad decisions had led to a regretful action.

The next day she called to thank me for being a sounding board (as opposed to sounding bored). Our time together allowed her to process her thoughts. It gave her the courage to reach out to her other friend and work to rebuild the friendship.

After we hung up, I thought about how much I admired my friend. Her humbleness and transparency was helping her to right a wrong and to move beyond it in a healthy way. She wasn’t hiding her mistakes but instead she was owning up to them and beginning the healing process.

We all know being dishonest with others is wrong and unacceptable: enough said. But there’s a kind of dishonesty we usually don’t talk about: being dishonest with ourselves. It happens when we’re unwilling to admit our personal faults and weaknesses. We convince ourselves that we can overcome our greatest weaknesses on our own. We go on without accountability. Eventually, either by force or surrender, though, we have to come to terms with who we really are.

If worry is like a dancing bear, then dishonesty is like a monkey with clanging cymbals. I’m a drummer—while we’re being honest, I prefer to be called a percussionist; if you’re a musician, you will get the joke, if not, I’ll just say I do more than bang on trash cans—so I love the toy monkeys with clanging cymbals. And I love the videos of monkeys trying to play with percussion instruments. (That stuff is make your ribs-hurt funny.) But when the monkey with clanging cymbals comes on the scene, we have a hard time hearing anything else. While that monkey is telling us lies about good music, like a garage-band drummer, we can’t hear the real melody. We can’t tune for the life of us. Eventually, we end up playing punk rock and having black hair, and calling ourselves an artist. (I did that, for the record.)

We keep our distance. We put up walls. All because we believe vulnerability will come back to kick us in the behind, or even kill us. Something recently happened that changed my mind about my new friend vulnerability.

I used to write headlines for Bible Study Magazine. I don't anymore. But I didn't figure out that I stink at writing headlines on my own. In fact, I thought I was pretty good at it. I'm not. After some critique from leaders more skilled than myself, I decided to stop writing headlines. I turned to our artists and said, "I can't write headlines worth squat. I need your help." That decision made our entire magazine better. Our art is better. Our concepts are better. The narrative arc of our magazine is better. Everything is better. We now tell a story together.

My 11 year old son Ian and I went out to breakfast this morning before school. it was a last minute decision and it basically ensured that he would be a little late. Better mothers than I are more particular about this sort of thing, but I tend to be more liberal with out-to-breakfast mornings and mental health days then I probably should be.  

It was about 9:15 when we arrived at the attendance desk - 15 minutes late. Ian knew the drill. He grabbed the neon yellow late slip and began to fill it out. 

Name: Ian Dominguez Ball

Date: April 23, 2009

Time: 9:15

Reason for lateness... 

I laughed as Ian started to write. "He's sure to tell the truth," I told the attendance lady with a smile as Ian said slowly as he wrote each word, "we....went...out...to...breakfast."  Why not? We had gone out to breakfast. No need to pose. Or so I thought...