It can sometimes feel like we should back off before Him. You know—don’t elbow, don’t shove. He’ll get around to you. Be patient. Be polite, and let others have their time with Him first. After all, their needs may be greater than most.

It’s true that there are times we have to be patient when waiting for answers to prayer, but we never have to queue up before the throne. Having an audience with the Lord doesn’t require taking a number to be called when it’s our turn, nor do we have to grab a place in line early, and then fight to keep it.

The truth is, when we approach the Lord we aren’t butting in on someone else’s time with Him. If someone next to you is praying, you don’t have to say to them, “Excuse me, but I really need to interrupt here because my situation right now is pretty urgent and I desperately need to talk to the Lord.” It’s a lot less complicated than that.

He lives in us, so approaching Him is as simple as talking to ourselves, only much better. It doesn’t matter how many of us are clamoring for His attention at once, because each of us has all of His attention—all at the same time.

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I think He kept it simple by showing me three possible scenarios that I would understand.

1. A friend offers to introduce you to the Lord, assuming you might hit it off. You refuse, saying, “Don’t bother. His name doesn’t mean anything to me, and I have no need to meet Him.”

2. You are in a crowd and you see the Lord across the room. You offhandedly ask someone, “Who is that? He looks familiar but if we’ve met I must not have been impressed because I don’t remember His name.”

3. You walk into a gathering and spot Jesus in the crowd. You can’t resist calling His name, which you know well because you speak to Him often. He immediately turns to you, His arms open wide for a bear hug.

I think I can see which of these the Lord will “set on high” according to Psalm 91.

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Dear Judy,

This is very hard for me to write, but I need your opinion. I started using drugs and having sex when I was 14. I met a wonderful man when I was 20 though, and we’ve been married for 19 years. We have a daughter and a son who are teenagers. I’ve never told my children about my past and I’ve always told them they should be married before becoming sexually active. Last night my daughter and I were talking and she asked me, point blank, if I had had sex before I got married. I couldn’t bring myself to lie, but I didn’t want to tell the truth either. In the end I told the truth and now she’s very upset. I don’t know what to do. I wish I had never done the things I did as a teenager, but I can’t undo the past. Did I do the wrong thing by being honest with my daughter? What would I do if my children ask if I ever used drugs? I feel like I’ve lost my daughter’s respect and I feel like a failure as a mother.

Dear Reader,

Yours is a classic example of learning the hard way and wanting to keep your children from doing the same. The fear is always that, if children know of a parent’s past, it will be like giving them permission to behave badly and that you will lose your value as a role model. The key is to influence your children positively because of what you know.

You asked three questions. Were you wrong to be honest; should you be honest if she asks you about your drug use, and what you should do about the fact that she is so upset and seems to have lost respect for you.

You also mention that you feel like a failure as a mother. You’re not. If you were, neither of you would be agonizing over this because bad behavior would be no big deal to either of you.

No, you were not wrong to be honest. She asked you a direct question and lying would have undermined your relationship more than telling her the truth. Teenagers have a way of finding out the truth anyway, even when they aren’t looking for it, and discovering that you lied would be worse than learning you acted out in your youth. She might then begin to wonder what else is a lie.

If your daughter asks about past drug use, I suggest you again tell the truth. You can explain about the mistakes you made and why you think you made them. Don’t make excuses, but teach her how to avoid the pitfalls you fell into. Hopefully, your husband will join you in the discussion, or at least be available as a back-up, to present a stable and united front.

Tell your daughter what you went through, and how you straightened yourself out. Help her to understand, too, how difficult it can be to turn your life around once you mess it up. Remind her that even those who do manage to rebuild their lives often have lasting emotional and/or physical scars. Your daughter will be less disappointed with you if she understands the hardships vou went through and how you overcame them. That, alone, should engender her respect.

Of course your daughter is upset—so are you—and the two of you should be honest about that with each other. Accept her outrage and confusion as normal and understandable, but remind her that they are no less than what you felt about yourself, and that you will do everything in your power to keep her from ever going through anything like that.

Feel free to remind her that compassion works both ways, and sometimes the hardest part of growing up is learning that our parents are human and that they can make mistakes. Another proof of maturity is a willingness to learn, the easy way, from what other people, including parents, learned the hard way.

Hopefully open communication will help her realize that you are still the mother she loves and respects, not the troubled teenager you left behind in your youth.

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We are being told to pray for our enemies because, after all, “There must be something in everyone that is good.”

To be honest, as a retired peace officer I wasn’t so sure about that. I have seen consciences that are so seared by years of primitive survival, or from practicing so much unrestrained and reckless selfishness that there didn’t seem to be anything left in them that was amenable to renewal.

Still, everyone—even the worst offender—was a child once, so surely they still carry remnants of that unsullied one deep inside them. Didn’t Jesus say we had to become as children in order to enter the Kingdom? Maybe that dormant child from the past can be a foothold to transformation.

So now when I pray for those who seem to be “too far gone,” I have been asking the Holy Spirit to speak to the child within them. He knows exactly what to say to that hidden, long-buried innocent who might respond and receive faith more easily than the jaded adults they have since become.

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I thought it would be nice to say hello and catch up, but I didn’t. Two things held me back.

First, I wasn’t quite sure that’s who they were and, second, if they were total strangers I didn’t want to go through what I knew might follow. Their reaction might include a teensy rolling of the eyes and a stifled snicker—not malicious, but as an involuntary reaction to the natural chasm that lies unbridgeable between the young and old.

When I was in my teens, people as old as granite would ask things like how to use a new gadget, or how to tune in the black and white television. And because I knew the answers, I thought the only things they knew were those that no longer mattered.

With the condescension and the absurdity of youth, we youngsters occasionally wondered how our elders had managed to get through life. We thought we were we the only smart ones. Never mind that we knew zilch.

Now that I’m one of the older folks I really do know a lot more, which means I also know how much I don’t know. Still, in the eyes of some youngsters, I’m aware that I may be a semi-conscious senior, and I sometimes give them reason to think so.

I have occasionally searched the house frantically for a set of keys that I have just placed in my pocket, or I might take a little extra time to recall names and words. Before Apple Pay, I would dig in my purse for change at the express check-out while the people behind me crossed their arms and tapped their toes, wondering why the heck I didn’t just hand the clerk a dollar bill and get it over with.

Oddly enough, no one would mind my behavior at all if I were seven years old. For some reason it’s okay to be missing teeth, have big freckles and be totally clueless when you’re a little kid, but combine those oddities with a few wrinkles, and things change faster than it takes to sprout a gray hair.

All I can hope is that, as I continue to grow in years, I will care less what people think of me if I do things that make me look a bit goofy. At this point, though, I still care enough that it kept me from approaching those two young girls I thought I might know.

Thank goodness.

When I got home I did the math and realized that time had zipped by while I was mired in middle-age. There was no way those girls in their twenties could possibly be my friend’s daughters because, by now, they must be approaching middle-age.

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Early in our acquaintance I learned that a friend couldn’t swallow pills, but she could swallow cherry pits without a problem. I always found that strange since they are about the same size. When I asked her about it she said that when she was small she heard about a child choking on a pill, so taking pills became pretty scary for her. It didn’t occur to her that she could choke on other things too.

My friend knows it’s just a mental hitch, but even today she would probably smash a pill before taking it. She did say, “I might be able to force myself to swallow a pill if my life depended on it, but most likely not, if it was huge!”

Children often assume, too, that whatever an adult says must be true.

I once worked with a woman who never blew her nose. Instead, she used a tissue to simply dab as needed, even if she had a serious head cold. When I asked her why she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, blow her nose, she said she honestly didn’t know, but it wasn’t a physical impairment.

I have wondered if, when she was very little and was being shown how to blow her nose, some adult tried to be funny by saying something like, “Don’t do that because your brains might come out your nose!” After all, the effects of comments adults make, even in jest, can have staying power long after the child has forgotten what was even said.

There are also those times when children interpret simple information according to their limited and unique reasoning.

When we were growing up our mother often made the comment, “If I hadn’t gotten married I would have finished college/taken that modeling job/moved to wherever/etc.” My sister thought she was saying, “Everybody has to get married,” and my sister married at age 22. I thought our mother was saying, “Don’t get married until you’ve done everything you want to do, because once you tie the knot it’s all over!” so I didn’t get married until I was 38.

I’m sure our mother would have been surprised at how each of us interpreted what she said, especially since from the same statement my sister heard resignation, and I heard resistance.

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In addition to any shock, embarrassment or fear a child’s arrest can bring, the justice system is also a virtual “unknown” for most people, so I have a few suggestions. They are fairly general, but they may help maneuver through what may seem like a foreign country, not to mention a foreign language.

1. Whatever you do, try not to panic.

   Panic will take your thinking to the worst possible scenario and may also cause you to over-react. Grit your teeth and control your emotions long enough to learn the charges, and then ask your child pertinent questions to get his or her side of the story. It’s a sure bet that they are also upset, either because they feel they have been wrongly charged, or because they know they were wrong and they aren’t looking forward to facing the consequences, so your composure will help.

2. As soon as possible, address the issue of guilt or innocence with your child.

   It will always come down to the question of whether or not the charge is true, so encourage them to tell the exact truth. While the incident is still clear in your child’s mind, ask clear, concise and relevant questions without yelling or badgering. Do not encourage your child to lie. You definitely don’t want to abet them in trying to get away with something. Remember, they are watching you and learning from your actions.

3. Reassure your child that his/her relationship with you has not been damaged.

   It can be tricky, but tell them that, although you are not happy with the current circumstance, or perhaps their actions, it in no way affects your love for them, and your relationship is not in danger.

4. Do not automatically assume it is your fault.

   Many parents whose children had been arrested wondered what they had done wrong. It’s okay to ask yourself that question, and to look at your behaviors that may have contributed, but do not do so at the expense of holding your child accountable for his or her own actions. If you have honestly tried to teach—and show—them right from wrong, that tends to override most of the normal human mistakes parents make.

5. Show your support for your child.

   Be on their team but, at the same time, condemn any illegal behavior. Attend interviews and hearings with them by acting as enforcer, as well as protector. You don’t have to be one or the other. You can be both, as long as you are fair.

6. Approach authorities with a cooperative attitude.

   Your interactions with the authorities can make or break your child’s experience with the justice system. Seek common goals and follow through with your end of the equation. Ask questions if you don’t understand what is occurring. It’s easy for officers to forget that this is a new and shaky experience for most people, so remind them of that fact, but don’t take the easy way out by abdicating your responsibility or authority, because your role as a parent is extremely important and will affect your child’s success.

7. When the matter is finally closed, let it stay closed.

   Do not make your child re-live the experience forever, and don’t tell them you can never trust them again. That is a sure way to alienate them and may even increase the chances of more problems. Once the matter is closed, don’t open the subject again, unless it is on a positive note, or your child brings it up. Reassure them that humans make mistakes, and that you are proud of how they handled the matter and learned from it. Hopefully that will be the case.

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My husband’s earliest memory is of sitting in the kitchen sink while his mother is giving him a bath. He thinks he must have been about 18 months old. He has seen an old photo of himself in that sink, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t what gave him the idea because he can definitely recall looking at his mother as she washed him, and he can still smell the soap she was using. For him, the photo was simply confirmation of an actual memory.

My earliest memory is of lying on my back in what must have been a baby bassinet, looking up at faces that were bending over me. I don’t think I would have been comfortable claiming that as a true recollection though, had it not been for something my mother once said.

I told her what I thought I remembered, and I pointed to a corner of the dining room. I said, “I have a feeling that I my bassinet was sitting right over there,” and she nodded and said, “Yes, that’s where it was.”

My sister’s first memory is from when she was about two years old. She said, “Mama was standing over a floor heater in the hallway, and I was looking up at her as she told me that I was soon going to have a little brother or sister.” At the time, my sister didn’t have any particular reaction to what our mother was saying because it didn’t mean much to her. Still, for some reason, she has never forgotten it.

A friend of mine said, “I think my first vivid memory was one of purposely tumbling head first down a flight of stairs when I was about three. It was on the second floor of our house in Cleveland, and the stairs had blue carpeting, as I recall. I remember wondering what it would be like to roll down the stairs, so I decided to do it. I didn’t like the results and I remember sitting at the bottom of the staircase, crying.”

I’m no psychologist, but surely we all have tons of imprints on our brains that we carry around like luggage, many of them locked securely away from recall. I also assume that those imprints, remembered or not, affect our personalities, character and behavior in more ways than we could possibly imagine.

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That was the church where, at seven years old, I sang about Jesus loving all the little children and also learned old hymns that still minister to me today.

One night, decades later, when it no longer existed as a church, I dreamed about that humble little place of worship. In my dream it was the same building and the same interior, but it was somehow huge, and much more ornate, almost like a cathedral. Surprisingly, a lot of grandeur managed to occupy and overflow the limited space of the original sanctuary, and yet it was, somehow, still the same church.

The interior was absolutely beautiful. There was a large pipe organ to the right, near where the old upright piano had stood, and the gleaming pipes extended high up the walls to an arched ceiling that seemed to go on forever. Everything was large and splendid, and yet I knew it was the same, small place.

That a huge cathedral could somehow occupy such a limited area made no sense, so I asked the Lord what the dream meant. Of course He answered my question.

It was simple. The awesome cathedral I saw in my dream was what that tiny, humble faith-filled church actually was, in the Spirit.

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The van’s poor engine coughed, wheezed and hiccuped as if it were gasping for air, and the driver was obviously trying to keep it revved up so it wouldn’t die before the light turned green. I could see why he was nervous about it because, when he pumped the gas pedal, it didn’t produce a healthy roar. All it could manage was a pitiful “prrrrup- prrrrup.”

Suddenly, the passenger opened his door wide to slam it shut, but it gave a hollow “wham” and sort of bounced open again. He repeated it several times, putting more muscle into it each time. “Wham! WHAM!” Finally, he gave up and simply held the door closed until the light changed and traffic began to move. Then the road curved to the left and the centrifugal force pulled the door open again, creating a tug-of-war between the door and the passenger.

As if that wasn’t enough, when the van drove a little ahead of us we noticed something dragging underneath the chassis. Whatever-it-was made a slight clang every time it bounced off of the roadway, which it did with every jolt of the vehicle. Thank goodness there weren’t any sparks, or a fiery “ka-boom” might have been added to the commotion.

Then, as the van, with all of its prrrrups, bangs, clangs, blaring music and undercarriage sparks, turned another corner, we saw it. On the door was the name of the driver’s business.

The logo said, simply, “Lotsa Sounds.”

It was a perfect punchline, and we agreed that the van did a fantastic job of advertising because, even now, we still remember “Lotsa Sounds.”

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A deputy who began his job in the 1950’s insisted that the key to making offenders comply with his orders was to make them think he was crazier than they were. I laughed the first time I heard him say it, because I thought he was joking.

But he wasn’t joking.

One of his favorite stories was when he transported a prisoner from Los Angeles to our local jail. I assume the car had a cage between the front and back seats, and the prisoner was in the back seat, handcuffed. He was also making as much noise as possible. He ranted. He raved. He complained and called the deputy everything evil and stupid, tossing in all of the expletives he could think of just to add mud to all of the other stuff he was slinging. He absolutely refused to calm down even though the deputy warned him several times. They had a long trip ahead of them and there was no way he could drive that many hours with so much commotion coming from the back seat.

Finally the deputy had had enough. He turned off the highway onto a lonely country road, pulled over and shut off the engine. He slowly got out, unholstered his weapon and walked around to the other side. Then he opened the back door where the prisoner sat, wide-eyed.

“What’re you doin’?” he sort of whined, his voice a little lower and slower than it had been a couple of minutes earlier.

The deputy barked, “It’s simple. I’ve listened to you long enough and I can’t take it any longer.” Then he added, “I’ve warned you and you won’t shut up, so you’re going to escape and I’m going to have to shoot you. Get out of the car.”

“What?”

“I said, get out of the car! You had your chance and there’s only one way to shut that big mouth of yours. Now get out and start running!”

The felon didn’t move. Not an inch. He simply yelped, “You’re crazy!”

Bingo.

Having made his point, the deputy glared at his prisoner while slowly holstering his gun. Then he grudgingly snarled a willingness to give the man one last chance, and it worked. The back seat became a sanctuary of silence that lasted the remainder of the trip.

I have never forgotten that story, and I could definitely see how the deputy convinced his prisoner which one of them was crazier.

I have to admit—he convinced me, too.

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Early into the meal a man seated at a nearby table stood and began singing in a beautiful tenor voice. Within minutes another man across the room stood, faced him and sang along. They gestured to each other and to patrons, and brought a magic to the atmosphere that I, a farm girl from Central California, had never experienced, particularly in such an authentic European setting. I was totally enthralled.

I can still see the first singer. He was a man in his 40’s, tall, with greying hair, and he eventually began addressing people in the room, including our table. After learning that we were airline crew, he asked, “Where are you from?” and our navigator replied, “America.”

The man clarified, “The States?” When we said yes, he seemed to consider it for a few seconds before he said, with definite conviction, “You are welcome here.” In those days many members of our cockpit crews were also WWII veterans, and he probably guessed as much.

Our singing “host” then continued to ask individuals where they were from and one of our stewardesses said she was from Sweden. Her simple answer to such a simple question changed everything.

As if he had been slapped hard across the face, he stood stock still, glared in her direction, pointed and roared, “Sweden! Where was Sweden during the War?”

The poor girl probably wasn’t even born then, so of course she had no answer.

The entire room was suddenly quiet—the atmosphere heavy with the residue of suffering the Belgians had endured nearly a quarter of a century earlier. We could all feel old emotions from their struggle to survive the war, and I’m sure many of the diners that night also vividly remembered who was “with them” in the fight.

It was an intense moment, but thankfully it went no further. Within minutes a few others said where they were from and everyone returned to their meals and private conversations. I was a little concerned about our Swedish stewardess, but she seemed to recover without a problem. I have to assume she had heard it all before.

Eighteen months later I became a Red Cross donut dolly in Vietnam, working mostly with combat troops. That experience, and the years after, showed me first-hand how memories of war can take on a life of their own, lingering for decades as they simmer beneath everyday activities and apparent normality.

At some point those emotions can bubble to the surface, or even erupt in response to an offhanded remark or a small tidbit of truth—just like what happened with the simple exchange that evening in Brussels.

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By the fallen mighty, I refer not only to the fact that, at my age, some of my body has taken a flying leap and landed somewhere below my center of gravity, but I also refer to my poor husband. The entire incident revolved around him and, although I realize he was technically a “victim,” at the time I took his behavior as a reflection on me. Women tend to do that. We can’t help it. Neither could he.

As usual, my husband was pushing the cart and I was placing groceries in it. It’s a comfortable habit we’ve forged out of hundreds of trips to the store, and it always seemed to work for us—until this particular day.

I was concentrating on the various blends of decaf tea when WHAM, I was rammed by our grocery cart, with my husband at the helm. It was obvious he was totally engrossed in something other than shopping.

He apologized very sincerely, but I could tell he was a little preoccupied, and when I asked him what had happened, he did something he never does.

He sputtered.

Then he started rambling.

“There was this young lady over there, standing by the mustard, and she was wearing this . . . this sort of . . . I don’t know how to describe it, but it was clear down to . . . I mean, you could see . . . it was just . . . and I’m afraid it caught my attention for just a second too long, you know?” I was getting the picture.

He must have been in some stage of stupefaction, because he couldn’t stop.

“I think you would have stared too, had you seen her. In fact, I think she went that way and if we head down there you will see those, I mean you’ll see her, and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Oops! Sorry about that. I got you on the same side again, didn’t I?”

It was then, right there in the middle of all that tea that I woke up and smelled the coffee. News headlines blazed in my imagination.

MAN RAMS WIFE WITH CART WHILE GAPING AT YOUNG TART IN GROCERY MART!

I admit I was just a wee bit curious at that point, and I really did want to see what he was going on about, but I didn’t want to admit it. Not just then. Not to him.

I couldn’t have anyway, because he and our cart were already turning the corner at the far end of the aisle. And I couldn’t blame him, because under-dressed people do capture the attention of others, which is, I assume, precisely why they do it.

Still, I have asked him to be a little more careful in the future, when he’s gawking and driving at the same time.

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Then I remind myself that this platform is not about competition. It’s about genuine sharing, making new friends and supporting each other. The truth is, I am sincerely happy about other writers’ successes, and I think most of us feel the same way. Substack is a positive community of connections and inspiration, and there is no need for envy.

Most Substackers are trying to reach out, connect and improve others’ lives, and we only need occasional evidence that it’s actually happening. It doesn’t have to be a landslide of adoration—just a hint now and then that we are somehow contributing. I truly value my readers, no matter how many they are. Their encouragement spurs me on, and I simply keep at it.

A year or two ago I stopped soliciting paying subscribers because I’m not writing for profit (although I appreciate it when it happens) and I don’t want to make that my main gauge of success.

I simply want to be able to blast off now and then about something that drives me nuts; recall something meaningful in my own life; whisper encouragement to someone who is drowning in grief; give an online hug to a disappointed soul, and laugh out loud with those who are rejoicing.

Substack is the perfect platform for all of that—for all of us.

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I do not like dinky little maps that fit my iPhone screen and are limited to my point of origin and my destination, showing very little in between other than the highlighted route I’m being told to take.

Where is the charm in that? The discovery? The romance? I’ll tell you where it is. It’s tucked into the trend of seeing new places and travel as mostly how-to’s—mostly how to get there and how long it will take. Oh, sure, you can get information on what to do when you’re there, and see people, places and things, but it just doesn’t satisfy. At least it doesn’t satisfy me.

I want my map—every single inch of it—on paper, and I want my eyes to be able to scan it all—including what I might experience en route. Yes, even to touch it and trace various routes before choosing one. It’s also fun to recognize places I’ve been, and re-live memories.

For instance, a paper map of London lets me view the whole thing and I can study it in its entirety. I can memorize sections and get an idea of the layout, even see how communities are connected and how far apart they are. It’s fun to locate streets I have walked and theaters I have attended. It’s a bird’s eye view that tickles my imagination, sometimes making me giggle and rub my hands with delight.

And . . . with paper maps, the entire thing doesn’t disappear if my index finger accidentally touches Kew Gardens while I’m studying the Tower of London. When (not “if”) I hit the wrong thing on an app, without realizing it, I’ve given an electronic command that shoots me to an ad or to some ridiculous page I’ve never seen before.

Younger people don’t have that problem. Their index fingers are better trained on laptops and phones, so if it they do accidentally lose the page they’re on, they easily recover with a swipe here and there. They’re back to the right screen faster than I could say, “What the heck am I looking at, how did I get here, and how do I get back to the Tower Bridge?” Sadly, it’s also true that they most likely have never used a paper map—the ones I call “real” maps—and I think that’s a shame.

Yessir. Give me a real map any day—one that I can unfold and spread out on a large flat surface. Then leave me alone in a room for at least an hour. Maybe longer. My phone will be turned off and my imagination and I will be having a ball.

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Sometimes my husband asks, “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I reply, which isn’t, strictly speaking, the entire truth. I was actually saying something, but it wasn’t to him. I might be rehashing a conversation I had with someone long ago, or I might be talking to whatever I’m dealing with at the time—some pie dough that isn’t cooperating with my rolling pin; an item that is hiding from me in my purse, or something I heard somewhere that I am still trying to figure out.

Occasionally I mutter an idea I have for a story, which can include people who are conversing with each other. It’s probably akin to playing checkers with yourself, where you simply change seats in order to move your pieces. Only, in this case, I switch identities in my mind, to create a narrative. Out loud, of course.

One time, without thinking, I yelled, “Hang on, boys!” to a bunch of ants that were marching around inside the dishwasher just before I turned it on. My husband rushed in to see what was happening, and when I told him, he just walked away, shaking his head.

I was sure there must be others who do what I do, so I conducted one of my totally unscientific polls. I sent an e-mail to several people and asked them if they ever talk to themselves, or to anything else for that matter, and indications are that we’re a pretty big club. I’ll bet there are more of us self-talkers than there are AARP members.

Here are a few responses:

1. “Yes, I talk to myself a lot! And, to be honest, I don’t talk to only myself. I talk out loud to people who aren’t here, especially the ones who annoy me. You should hear some of the things I say . . . “

2. “I definitely say things to people who have aggravated me. The people can’t hear me because they’re somewhere else, but I still tell them how wrong they are and what I think about their behavior.”

3. “I make comments to myself regarding former conversations or incidents, even if they were years ago. I think I probably have always done it because I was an only child—my dad was deaf and my mom worked, so who could I talk to except myself? Some habits are formed early.”

4. “I have long conversations with my car when it makes a wrong turn when I wasn’t looking. I also get put out with the washer, the dryer and the dishwasher. I think I’m really getting senile.”

5. “I talk to myself all the time! As long as I don’t answer me, I feel pretty good!”

6. “Oh, dear, you are SO not alone. I always talk to myself in the car. The other day I was so involved in my soliloquy that I missed my turn. My husband now even gives me a heads-up before entering a room because he knows how upset I get if he hears me talking to myself.”

7. “I do talk to myself, in my mind. My wife does also, but everyone can hear her!”

Now I’m wondering. Do we have these conversations more often as we get older, or do we simply start saying them out loud as we age? I definitely don’t remember being this open with my thoughts when I was in my 20’s, but maybe I was just too busy then, to notice.

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He wrote about the energy it takes for writers to “see ideas through,” which made me think about my own energy levels when I try to compose a post, but his premise confirmed something else for me that I needed to consider.

When I feel like it’s too difficult to see a post through from start to finish, I have to remember that a post is about only one idea. If I stick to the point, I usually don’t need to worry about having enough energy. When I let my narrative wander down various rabbit holes, however, I do need extra energy, and by the time I realize I have wandered from my intended path I am frustrated and unclear about what on earth I started out to say. By then not only my stamina, but my interest in and excitement for the original task may have waned.

Addressing only one idea in a post also keeps my thinking on point, and when I don’t try to include every possible side-thought, I can save those notions for topics in more posts.

So thank you, Stefano. I know this isn’t exactly where you were heading, but your post pointed me in a direction I needed to go. It’s a simple principle I am happy to be reminded of, which is to stick to the point of what I originally meant to say, without attaching spin-off ideas. Those ideas are best left to the readers, who can use them as springboards for thought or discussion.

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The sweater didn’t seem quite right with the pants, a blouse didn’t look good either, and finding the right shoes was hopeless. I said nothing was working, and when my husband asked what didn’t match, I sputtered, in all honesty, “Me. Nothing matches me!”

I do something to clothes. I know women who could cut head and arm holes in a burlap bag, toss it on, and with a snappy little belt look like they just stepped out of Vogue Magazine. I, on the other hand, could don a thousand dollar outfit and people would whisper behind my back, “What the heck is she doing in that burlap bag?”

My husband sort of understands my problem, so he never says, “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” In fact, knowing I am clothing challenged, not long after the pre-dinner trauma he actually gritted his teeth and went with me to one of my favorite stores. We trudged from rack to rack, commenting on fabrics, colors, and accessories. Then, after about 20 minutes, even with all that help, or maybe because he was so sincere, I suddenly jammed everything back on the rack and blurted, “I’m not buying anything,” and we left. Actually, I left, and he trailed behind saying, “What? What?”

He kept asking what was wrong, but I didn’t want to admit what I was feeling. I was a blob. A fashion flop. An ugly old thing. I couldn’t say it out loud because my imagination said that might really jinx things, and the fashion fairy, in whom I definitely did not believe, might work her magic in reverse. She might even crack me on the head with her wand and send my chin to my ankles.

Half and hour later I changed my mind and trusted my husband’s belief that I could look decent in something other than a muu-muu designed by Omar the Tent Maker. So I took a chance and bought something I really liked.

No, I haven’t worn it yet because I don’t want it to go bad. It looks great as long as it’s hanging in my closet, and that makes me feel fashionable.

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My business will be called “Just Blame Me.” People who are in denial can hire me and I’ll stand in for them. There will be limits, of course. Naturally I won’t hire out for things that are really, truly serious, or criminal, and I absolutely refuse to be tossed off a plane in place of the one who is causing a ruckus.

If, however, someone puts a dent in his wife’s new BMW or paints the dining room walls the wrong color, I’m their man—I mean woman. For the right price I’ll show up at the scene, stand next to the damage and declare to anyone within earshot, “This is all my fault, and I sure am sorry about it!” They can even record me and play the video for anyone who tries to give them a bad time over the mess. I’ll earn a few dollars and the person who is really to blame will feel relieved. I just know there’s a market out there for such a service.

If I’m successful, I’ll need employees, but I’ll have to screen them with a few pertinent questions. I’ve already asked them of myself and found that I’m perfect for the job.

1. Do you sometimes feel guilty over things that have nothing to do with you?

2. When something goes wrong within a mile of where you live or work, do you automatically assume it may have somehow been your fault?

3. Do you often feel like you should try to make things right for everyone, even if you don’t know them from Adam?

If you answered with even one “yes,” you may be exactly who I’m looking for. Well, why not? Why not earn a salary from a personality trait that might otherwise ruin your day.

There are oodles of people out there who cringe at the idea of responsibility, and they would be pleased as punch to point an accusing finger at those of us who are prone to accept too much of it. I’m sure many of them would pay for the privilege, and that’s where we come in. Everybody wins. They get to pass the buck and we get to make a few.

Naturally I’ll have to consult an attorney to design a contract that ensures we won’t have to pay to fix the thing we’re taking the blame for, or get sued for something we didn’t actually do. I’ll definitely need some sort of disclaimer that says we’re only trying to help people feel better. After all, we’ll be making lemonade out of lemons, won’t we? Perhaps even juice out of sour grapes.

My only concern is that, because of our tendency to generally accept fault, my employees and I might begin to believe we really did cause that overloaded washing machine to pop a gear, or that we actually encouraged Fido to turn little Susie’s talking doll into a squeaky toy. And I definitely don’t want to start losing sleep over the tomcat who blessed the neighborhood with 50 kittens in three months. That might be asking a little too much.

Still . . . the price for taking the blame will be negotiable, and I might be willing to lose a few hours of shut-eye every now and then, as long as I am adequately compensated.

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When I was just out of college, and green as a gourd, I was preparing one of my first court reports and was interviewing a juvenile’s father who was telling me about his own sordid life. When he said, “Well, you know what I mean.” I thought, “No, I haven’t a clue. You’ve got to be kidding!” He no doubt sensed my reaction and at that point he shut down and gave only very non-committal answers.

A girl told me about becoming a prostitute because her father and brother began selling her when she was 13 years old. I still hadn’t learned how to disguise my reactions and within a few minutes she started asking her own questions.

“What’s with you, anyway?” she demanded. “Am I shocking you with this stuff?” I tried to form some sort of reply, but she cut me off with, “Just put whatever you want into that report of yours because, to you, I’m dirt.”

I didn’t think she was dirt. In fact, my heart went out to her. What she saw was my reaction to the detestable things that had been done to her, but she assumed I was condemning her, not them.

It took only a few more months of interviewing before I had heard enough that I was no longer quite so easily surprised, or had at least learned to keep my reactions off my face and out of my voice.

Kids would talk about being abused at home, or how they were taught to use drugs and steal, but I couldn’t say, “That’s really awful—how could they do that!” I might be thinking it, but any degree of condemnation from me usually made children feel they were betraying their families, and they would then either deny all they had just said or simply stop talking altogether.

I was once preparing a court report on a man who had been convicted of the first degree murder of his wife, but he had not admitted it at any point in the process. Naturally I asked him about the facts of the offense, noting how strong the evidence was against him. He either couldn’t believe he had done such a thing or he just didn’t want to own it. With a poker-face I asked several more questions, and he eventually paused, looking everywhere but at me, and said, with a great deal of effort, “I . . . ended . . . her life.” That seemed to be the closest he could get to saying, “killed.”

Of course I was always looking for quotes I could put in Court reports that would help the Judge understand the person he or she was sentencing. Occasionally I was given raw information that showed exactly how the defendant’s mind worked. Some statements were almost exonerating in their exposure of tragic lives, while other were damning.

I interviewed one man after his conviction for voluntary manslaughter and he was fairly candid, probably because I wasn’t reacting to what he was saying. At some point in our conversation he even smirked, leaned back and sort of boasted something to the effect of, “Listen little lady, this might be the crime they’ll get me on, but I can tell you it sure as h— isn’t the only one, and it’s definitely not the worst!”

Yes, I quoted him in my report.

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