Joy in Being Wrong

It only happens once in a great while where I find myself pleased to have been wrong about something. I wish it would happen more often.

A little over a week ago I wrote about my concerns about the then upcoming visit from my oldest son and his family. Those concerns, it turns out, were unfounded as the visit was delightful, without a trace of anxiety to be seen or sensed.

I got to meet my granddaughter who is a charmer.

She is smart, happy and healthy. She also loves the camera.

Before the family got out of site as they headed northeast to Ludington, I was missing them with a heart swollen with gratitude for the joy we had and a little sorrow that it ended so soon.

Later, I began thinking about why I had made some assumptions that ended up being bad ones and I was reminded that whenever I think selfishly, I make bad assumptions and worse decisions.

For the past few years the only time we have seen our son and his family was at Christmastime. It was during those times I felt the tension and anxiety. It dawned on me on Saturday that the anxiety had nothing to do with being with the family and everything to do with the fact that Christmas, for my son, is the most stressful time of the year because he works in retail where fortunes are made and lost during the season for giving... and getting.

It was common for him to fly into town on Christmas Eve and fly out either on Christmas day or on the morning of the 26th. No one on the planet could find a spirit of peace with that schedule.

So, though I don't drink alcoholic beverages, I raise a toast to my error, my wrongness, my selfish stupidity. I would that it would happen more often.