It hurts to hear. "You're wrong, Hayley, you're so wrong!" The rebuke, no matter how gentle, stings immeasurably. I feel instantly defensive. I try to justify my [faulty] position. I respond with, "I understand what you're saying, you're right and I agree, that's just not what I meant." But my scrambling to clarify only illuminates for myself further just how wrong I am. Unthinking and indefensible.
Because simply, I love being right, and I love having insight, and I love understanding when God is showing me something. The last thing I want to hear is that I'm wrong. On the Vermont trip Mr. Bob asked, "Would you rather stop at every red light for the rest of your life, or be wrong for the rest of your life?" We all chose the red light. Most of Rhode Island is highways anyway.
So when people call me on where I've been slipping, it hurts. I deny it. But when the lady doth protest too much, it reveals how much she needed to hear it. [Name that reference, folks, and make me happy.] It hurts, and I resist the rebuke, justifying myself and adjusting my glossy mask. And in that instant, I'm pound pound pounded into a wonderful mess through this humbling accountability. The twinge of hurt at the rebuke demolishes my pride and readjusts my perspective to a perspective worth having. It's far more wonderful than affirmation.
So tell me, tell me just how wrong I am. I need to know.