The four weekly accountability questions in Giving Account are short enough to fit on an index card. What happened this week? Where was I tempted? What did I actually do? What do I need? Most men understand them the first time they read them. The hard part is sitting down on Sunday night and actually writing the answers.
So instead of more explanation, let’s walk through one week. The man below is hypothetical, and so is his week. But the process he goes through is the one most of us go through the first few times: a first draft that hides, a second draft that tells the truth, and a Monday night when he reads it aloud before anyone asks.
His week
Picture a man with a job, a wife, two kids, and a small group that meets on Monday nights. Here’s what his week actually held.
On Tuesday his wife asked whether he had paid the electric bill. He hadn’t, and he told her he had. On Wednesday night he was in bed on his phone past 11, drifting toward something he knew he shouldn’t look at. He put the phone down and went to sleep. On Friday he snapped at his daughter at dinner. On Saturday he quietly paid the electric bill online, late fee and all, and said nothing.
Now it’s Sunday night. He pulls out the Weekly Self-Report and starts writing.
The first draft
Here’s what comes out first:
- Kind of a rough week. Busy at work.
- The usual stuff.
- Did okay mostly. A little short with the kids.
- Prayer, I guess.
Every line is technically true, and every line hides something. Look at what’s happening:
- Line 1 is a vague confession. “Rough week” sounds like disclosure and works like concealment. His brothers couldn’t pray about it specifically if they wanted to.
- Line 2 gives them no map. “The usual stuff” means he isn’t going to tell them where the edge is.
- Line 3 reports an outcome, not a choice. “Did okay” is a grade, not an account. And “a little short” is a softener.
- Line 4 is the one place he could ask for real help, and he asked for nothing in particular.
Notice what’s missing entirely: the lie. It’s the thing he least wants to say, so it didn’t make the first draft. That’s normal. The first draft is usually the managed version.
The second draft
The self-report carries its own corrections. Line 1 is “the plain facts I need to say out loud.” Line 2 is “even where I did not fall.” Line 3 is “choices, not outcomes. Every verb belongs to me.” Line 4 is “prayer, a call, a question next week, a conversation I am avoiding.”
So he tries again:
- On Tuesday I told my wife I’d paid the electric bill. I hadn’t. I paid it Saturday and still haven’t told her. On Friday I snapped at my daughter at dinner.
- Wednesday night, in bed after 11, on my phone. I didn’t fall, but I was close.
- I lied because I didn’t want to admit I’d forgotten. On Friday I kept going after I saw her face. On Wednesday I put the phone down and went to sleep.
- I need to tell my wife about the bill this week. Ask me Monday whether I did. And I need to leave my phone downstairs at night.
What changed
One subject. Every sentence has I in it doing something. No work, no stress, no “the usual.” There’s no second clause pulling someone else into the account.
Real verbs. Told, paid, snapped, kept going, put down. Not “rough,” not “short,” not “did okay.”
Times and places. Tuesday, Wednesday after 11, Friday at dinner. A brother can ask a real follow-up now.
A temptation reported, not just a fall. Wednesday night is in the report even though he didn’t give in. That’s line 2 doing its job. Chapter 8 calls it the early-warning system: a man who reports his temptations is showing his brothers the map before he walks off the edge of it.
A need someone can act on. “Ask me Monday” is a job a brother can actually do.
No feelings, no backstory. He doesn’t explain why he forgot the bill, or how tired he was on Friday. Those may come up. But the report comes first, and it is short. As the book puts it, the goal is not to process; the goal is to walk into the light.
And it isn’t much longer than the first draft. A good self-report takes about three minutes to read. The work is in the honesty, not the length.
Monday night
He walks in, sits down, and before anyone asks how his week was, he says, “I’ll go first.” He reads his four lines.
Then his brothers do what brothers do. One asks, “What were you telling yourself right before you told her you’d paid it?” Another says, “It’s a small lie, but you’ve been carrying it for six days. It isn’t small anymore.” A third asks, “When are you going to tell her?” He answers each one. Someone prays for him by name, specifically about Tuesday’s lie, Wednesday’s phone, and Friday’s dinner table.
Nobody caught him. Nobody had to dig. He handed them a real account, and they had something real to work with.
The next week
Here’s the part people miss. The self-report isn’t only about this week. It sets up the next one.
Next Sunday, his line 1 might read: “I told my wife about the bill on Tuesday. I apologized to my daughter on Monday night.” Line 2 might say he was tempted again on Thursday and the phone was downstairs. That’s a week of obedience, reported just as plainly as a week of failure. A clean week is still a report.
And if it didn’t go well, if he never told her, that goes in line 1 too. His brothers were going to ask anyway. He’ll have already answered.
Try it this Sunday
Print a copy of the self-report and write your first draft. Then read it back and ask of each line: Could my brothers do anything with this? Rewrite every line where the answer is no.
For more before-and-after examples across anger, money, drinking, honesty, and lust, see the Chapter 8 companion. And the reasoning behind the four questions, including why they leave out the why, is in Giving Account.