I’ve heard it said that confession is good for the soul, so here I go: I’m a terrible driver.
I know the stereotype, that men are supposed to be proud of their directional and driving skills, but really, I’m such a bad driver that my inner compass is overshadowed by the horrific way I take to the highway. I speed. I don’t pay attention. I follow too closely. I drive too close to the ditch, and then I swerve over to make sure I don’t go off the road. I don’t drink-and-drive, but I’ve been pulled over because I was suspected of drinking and driving — twice.
If you’re asking what this has to do with marriage, just imagine riding to church with me. Or to run errands. Or driving to the grocery store, home from Christmas, or, anywhere.
If you were in my wife’s shoes, I can only guess what you’d say. You’d tell me to slow down, pay attention, move there, drive this way, stop, or go. You would refuse to ride with me until I got better. You may even question my care for the family.
Well, my dear and loving wife did all those things. And more. Most of the time we get along swimmingly, but when we would drive somewhere, things got tense. Like I’m-wearing-a-pork-chop-sweater-in-the-lion’s-den kind of tense.
[Read the rest of the article at Start Marriage Right.]