Fix-it.

Go ahead. You have my permission. Call me, “Miss Fix-it.” Notice I did not say, “Mrs. Fix-it.” To be totally transparent, my husband doesn’t always claim me when I go into fix-it mode.

You know how you have certain things in your basic personality and temperament that you just can’t seem to hide? Well, fixing things (or at least trying to fix things) is ingrained into my brain. I was indoctrinated to fix things.

Fixing was meshed into my upbringing. My mother is a fixer. Her twin sister was a fixer. My great grandmother was an ultimate fixer. She had money, so people wanted her to fix them.

The problem with being a fixer is most people don’t know (and certainly don’t want to know) that they are broken. Let’s be honest. They are broken in the world according to Perkins women.

And we are a tough audience to impress.

As I age, (and, man! I’m aging at warp speed!) I admit that some people aren’t mine to fix. In fact, besides myself, no one is mine to fix. That’s the job of the Holy Spirit, our Great Counselor.

Make an appointment with The Counselor, won’t you? Uh-oh, Miss Fix-it kicked in. Sorry.

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