By the time the revelers picked themselves up from the sidewalk, we had already taken inventory. The bar at the end of our tiny dead-end street had scored again. Each Saturday night, its patrons made it just far enough to collapse in front of our house—a weekend ritual we came to expect.

By Sunday morning, the evidence of revelry was gone. In its place, a different crowd flowed onto the sidewalk—a procession of Spazierengehen—families strolling along the Rhine River embankment while barges churned slowly upstream and others glided swiftly down. Sunday’s gentle rhythm concealed Saturday’s disorder.

But there was another concealment at work, even closer to home on our little dead-end street. Just four cement pavers off the asphalt street, a danger seemed to lurk—a black post jutted from the center of our driveway.

As we pulled our little German Taunus sedan into the driveway, horrified passersby shouted and gestured wildly, warning us of the black steel post standing squarely in our path. But when we drove over it, the post bent, and then—miraculously—sprang upright again behind our car, as if resurrected. The astounded onlookers pointed, then pressed hands to mouths; it was only made of rubber, a trick to keep lost travelers from turning around in our driveway.

The concealment worked. It was our little deception.

In truth, we are all masters of concealment. Each day we hide some fragments of ourselves. We push the speed limit to conceal our late departure for an appointment. We adjust our clothing to mask an expanding waistline. We temper political views to avoid conflict. We conceal an unwise habit or an embarrassing addiction.

Not every concealment reveals weakness. Some concealments are wise. We may withhold judgment until we have all the facts, awaiting better timing or the proper setting. We may delay sharing a medical concern until we’ve spoken with the doctor. We may gain legal or financial advice before sounding a premature alarm.

Concealment can spring from compassion and care. For many years, I taught students who were on parole. Although I often knew the nature of their crimes, I refused to disclose that private information to others. I concealed their weakness, their past misdeeds, out of care and respect. It is the same care we extend to anyone in a civilized society.

But other concealments can corrode. A hidden truth can eat away at our souls and poison the lives of others. Most of us have also complied with wrongdoing out of fear of reprisal, job loss, or disapproval. Do we sometimes hide poor choices or unwise habits simply to fit in?

When we conceal our own misbehavior, we compromise our integrity, and we risk searing our conscience.

Perhaps concealment is not the issue. The question lies in intent—why we hide, what we protect, and when we choose to reveal. Wisdom lies in knowing whether we are healing or harming, whether we are protecting or whether we are bending the truth.

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