Back-seat Fighter

Would I ever learn to keep my comments about church antagonists to myself?

Holding his cell phone while driving up the New Jersey Turnpike, my husband acknowledged the caller, "Yes, I know who was in church today."

Let me guess, I thought. Walter and Catherine just happened to show up, again, on the day you were on vacation. They were hugging and sharing and, oh, just maybe let a few concerns slip out about the pastor.

Ending his call a few minutes later, Dan nodded. "They were in church again."

"Yes, I heard," I said, glad that my previous response had not escaped my lips, and proud of myself, too, for not sharing every thought that enters my mind.

Early in my marriage, I learned never, for any reason, to point, yell, grab the door, or comment while my husband was driving. When I gasped, his eyes left the road to look at me. He wanted a wife, not a back-seat driver. Once I watched as we slowly rear-ended a Suburban in a toll booth line. Dan was glaring at people laughing at my son's tricycle tied to the roof of our car. My last moment "Hey, Babe" got his attention ...

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