A time existed in my past when I changed the oil in our vehicles: an old Honda Odyssey and an old Honda Pilot. It feels manly to put your car on ramps, get underneath it, change the oil, and then turn it on, knowing you did that (and exhaling when the engine doesn’t blow up).
Years back, I’d bring the boys outside to watch me. A family member of Courtney’s had a list of competencies he wanted to teach his son before he left the house. “Change the oil” was on it. Mentally, I stole that note. My kids don’t know how to change oil, but they did see me do it a time or two.
But more than those oil changes, they will much more likely remember the time I lied.
The thing I loathe most about oil changes is disposing of the used oil.
Stupid, I know, but that last task is the worst task.
In our shed right now sits a 16-month-old Tupperware container of used oil. I changed the oil in a generator a friend lent us after a hurricane and we were a week or so without power. Every time I mow, I open up that shed and think, “Yep.”
Back when I was an oil change aficionado, I had to drive it about two miles to an AutoZone to dispose of the oil. They had these big metal containers for oil recycling and if you walked in with old oil, they’d just point you to the back. It felt a little dangerous to be heading into the back of the store where they kept the stock, but they let you in.
“Yep”
One time, I was changing the oil shortly after I had some power steering work done. Why does this matter? The reservoir of power steering fluid was just a tad overfilled. Knowing me, I probably grabbed one of the kids’ medicine syringes (the kind you get with the pink stuff when your kid has an earache) and siphoned off just enough to get the level normal.
Where do I put that little bit of power steering fluid? With the motor oil, of course.
I drive my two miles, get my big saucer of used oil out of the back of the car, and bring it toward the back.
“Hey, I can recycle a little oil here, right?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just oil, right?”
“Yep.”
No pause. No hesitation. Maybe a millisecond of, “Well, that’s not true.” Then, dump the oil and move on.
All the way home, I knew what I had done.
Confessing the Lightweight Lie
I get it. “Not a big deal, it’s all part of stuff that is under the hood of a car.” A quick Google search might tell you that it is fine and these two fluids can be mixed.
”You’re being dumb.”
I, like you, make micro-justifications for many actions. What happened in that moment? I assumed what the right decision was, I assumed the employee wouldn’t care one way or another (I mean, it’s AutoZone), I assumed it wasn’t a big deal, and I acted on what I defined as correct.
The main character in all of those assumptions: yours truly.
I knew I needed to do something, but what? I can’t separate out all of the oil. I can’t fix it. Am I gonna go drink it all up? Go start my own oil-recycling business? Wear a sandwich board that said, “I lied about used motor oil. Don’t be like me”?
I needed to confess it, as weird as it felt.
You ever get convicted and know you need to say something, but the embarrassment of saying anything almost outweighs the confession? Neither have I.
Still, gotta say something. Two places to go:
First, to my family.
“Courtney, boys, I did something dumb.”
“Okay. You’re right. Why’d you do that?”
“Didn’t want to have to deal with oil in the house. Assumed the guy wouldn’t care. Didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”
Now I gotta go fix it.
Then, to AutoZone guy.
“Welcome to AutoZone.”
“Hey, cool, yeah, I was just here. I told you that what I brought in was just motor oil but it wasn’t. It included a little bit of power steering fluid and I dumped it in there.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I know, not much you can do about it now and not sure what I can do. But I needed to let you know.”
“It probably isn’t a big deal.”
“I know, but still. Thanks.”
Then I drove home—this time, with a lighter heart.
Make it Right in Whatever Ways You Can
Honestly, I get that this story seems ridiculous. It is ridiculous. I’m a grown man who knows better who is raising his family to do better.
But isn’t it common, and easy, to create those small, seemingly justifiable, vampire dishonesties?
Most of us aren’t heavyweight liars; we’re lightweight liars.
Heavyweight liars know they’re being dishonest and so does everyone else. Lightweight liars commit minor infractions that impact almost nobody.
Smaller consequences, fewer participants aware of the infraction, much more soul-sucking.
When you commit a lightweight lie, I’d say this: own it quickly, apologize wherever you must, and do whatever you can to make it right.
You’ll feel stupid, likely embarrassed, and better.
And your children might learn something, too. If not, they’ll at least have something to mock you about later.
Happy to have you along for another “Real Life” post. The whole premise of this Substack is that Real Life and Real Leadership play off of each other—even when we don’t want them to. Articles come on Mondays, alternating each section.
Reply back and let me know what is working and what you’d like to hear.
I am realizing that my predisposition to avoid conflict has been a driver behind some of my lies in my pre-Christian as well as (ashamedly) my post-salvation life. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.” Putting other people’s feelings ahead of righteousness is a spiritual failure. “But God…”