I have a number of "satellite offices", and one of my favorites is a restaurant in a bookstore in Peterborough, New Hampshire. The food is great, but I suppose given the layout of the tables, it would not be anyone's first choice as a place to talk about personal and private matters. The funny thing is, I have more conversations of personal and private sort here than just about any other place except  my "home office" in my favorite Bennington, New Hampshire hangout.

     In an earlier part of my life, I would have searched for a dining area with high-backed so  I could be at one booth and not see or hear into another. But that was back when I listened to more conversations than the one I was engaged in.

     I am not sure what changed me. Marriage, maybe. Now I concentrate so much on the conversation at my table that I have almost no idea what is being discussed at other tables. This "new" persona has boomeranged back. In places like my two "offices", I seldom give any thought to what I am saying being overheard.

     Still, on certain subjects my instinct is to be private. So it was on a recent visit with two friends at one of those offices that I turned down an offer to split a chocolate chip cookie. My friends were surprised, and refused to let it go. "Something must be going on," they insisted.

     I sighed, lowered my voice, and swore them to secrecy. "What I am about to tell you is just between us three."

     "Okay," they responded.

     "As part of my physical last month my doctor suggested I get an electrocardiogram."

     And together they said, "Yes, so you can off of some pills you have been taking since back in the day,"

     "What?" I exclaimed.

     "He wanted you to get off some pills you had taken for a heart thing you had years back."

     Startled, I asked, "How do you know that? Did I tell you this already?"

     "Well, sort of, you wrote about it in your column."

     "I did? About the pills, too?"

     "Yes!"

     I was truly startled. Now I was looking around a little. Had someone else heard this exchange? It didn't look like it. Everyone appeared to be engaged in their own conversations. My friends were laughing. Apparently, my doctors were concentrating on the wrong malady:  Instead of taking pictures of my heart, they should be checking out my brain. I forgot I'd written about my recent doctor's visit.

     As I smiled at my friends, my mind was taking inventory.  Suddenly I realized I never remember what I've written; not even sermons. This has been the case for quite some time; not just in my sixties. So maybe it is not just an age thing.

     Good thing I write, I thought. Otherwise, I would never tell anyone anything "private".

     When it comes to sharing potentially negative medical news,  I find there are two types of people. One type shares everything and asks for prayer willingly, while the other keeps it close and their friends have to work hard to know when they need help and prayer. As a minister,  I appreciate the former, but I have always identified myself with the latter: Until now, at least.

     I am not sure why I am crossing over. My guess is it is because of my time working as a chaplain in hospitals.  Illness and death is more familiar.