I took the things off the wall first.
I admit it.
I know that I could have used this week of packing and moving as an opportunity to practice self-discipline, doing the hard task, first. The words from my weekly examination of conscience rang in my head, “Do I do my work when I ought (today, now), or do I deceive myself by leaving it for later, which is the same as not doing it at all?”
Aaaaaaand I ignored them.
I took down the plants I had hung, the aprons from the hook in the kitchen, the images of Our Lord and Our Lady, and then I started on the closet.
And when my husband, the man who packs each box the moment before loading it up on the day of the move, came home and seemed distressed over the walls with nothing on them and the floor with plenty on it, I did what any other God-fearing woman would do: I came up with an excuse.
“It helps motivate me!” I cried, as he laid down on the couch to rub his head without taking off his shoes. “I needed the inspiration to get going!” I lied through my teeth. And the humble, good man that he is, took the blame for overreacting and tried to get back in a pleasant mood for my sake.
As I was setting the table for dinner, I tried to come up with a way to rectify the situation. “Maybe I could put a few things back up while he’s sleeping,” I thought, nonsensically. “Well, he was overreacting,” I rationalized, selfishly.
And while he went dutifully to work on the bookshelf, Internally, eventually, I caved.
Come, Holy Spirit. Why is it that I seek favor in other’s eyes, to appear faultless, when You see me, when You are with me always and know my heart better than I? Especially when this pride causes me to hurt those around me?
The gulf between the dining room and the bookcase shrunk as my pride bubble popped. An apology and scrubbing the oven sound like a good way to begin again.