I'm a little disappointed in myself. Not because I ate half-a-dozen cookies last night whilst sipping on some hot cocoa and browsing recipes for caramel pumpkin cheesecake, either. Well, okay, maybe a little because of that, but for the sake of writing a post this morning, let me own that disappointment separately.
I'm disappointed because, here I am, a church-going woman, a supposedly open-mind, open-hearted woman who will love everyone, a non-judgmental, do-the-right-thing type of gal. That is, until I realized that over the past week, I've judged people I don't even know, and even created imaginary circumstances that I know nothing about. A few days ago, after wheeling our trash can (my husband calls it a Herbie Curbie, but I contend that no one else calls it that) back up to it's resting spot, next to the house. About 3 or 4 hours later, when I was reluctantly cleaning the litter box, I walked out to dump the litter trash bag, only to find that Herbie was no longer next to the house. After standing there in a stupor for about 5 minutes, asking myself whether or not it was possible that I didn't put Herbie back, and I am actually nuts (which, the verdict is still out on that one...), I determined that someone had to have taken the thing. It was the only answer. About that time, a kid road by on a Vespa. The kid happened to be a different skin color, and as God as my witness, racism is not something I represent, but I did note that it was odd because there are two African American families that I know of in our neighborhood, and this kid didn't live with either one. That I know of. There's judgement one: would I have even noticed if it were a white kid zooming by? I don't know. In all fairness, I did pay special attention to this kid for another reason. He had ridden by, back and forth, about 4 times in the past 20 minutes. It seemed really odd, and somewhat coincidental in relation to my Herbie being gone? I narrowed by eyes and thought on it. Yes, I made the connection that somehow, this kid had to be guilty. But what would a kid want with my trash can? I let myself brew on this theory for a while. My dear neighbor and I stood puzzled in the yard, wondering who would steal a trash can. Anyway, I learned, a few days later, that the can was picked up by a trash company, as a result of a completely unrelated circumstance involving obvious miscommunication. Needless to say, the boy on the Vespa was probably just having a good time, enjoying this street particularly well, thus needing to travel it several times in a short period. And here, I judged him anyway. I realize as I type that I'm persecuting myself, here. Bear with me. It gets worse.
Ask yourself this: would you be suspicious if you saw a guy with a mullet-haircut, drinking a beer out of a beer stein, cigarette hanging from his lip, while manhandling a gray pit-bull, clipped for fighting? He also rides a bike around the neighborhood and "runs" this dog on a chain better fit for a winch on the front of a Jeep. And no, friends, I'm not one of these "pit-bulls are horrid, vicious dogs, not family pets, etc." people. I'm actually just for the ethical treatment of animals, period, and I don't take easily to a dog that looks like it may be used for illegal, and not to mention, inhumane, purposes. So you've read my description of the guy. What would you think? Well, again, I chose to stereotype. My honest thought, since I'm on a roll with self-righteous people-bashing here? "Wow, this redneck guy's probably trying to toughen this dog up to fight, he's probably abusing her and making her into one of these pit-bulls we inevitably see on the news, after they've attacked another innocent child. Great. Won't be walking the dogs past his house anymore." I thought this, wholeheartedly, until yesterday. Yesterday, Maddie, one of our dogs, went missing. She's been a notorious runner her entire life. She'll go months, even over a year, without escaping. Then, she'll have a streak of bolting that throws us into a frenzy. So, when I went to call her inside from the backyard yesterday and she didn't come running, I knew she had dug a hole. Sure enough, we found the hole, only just big enough for her sleek, lab body to slide out. After about an hour of searching, wouldn't you know it, Pit-bull Man approaches and says "I think I had your dog here, but I called the Humane Society because I didn't know where she belonged. She was real friendly and I gave her some water, but she didn't have a collar (she slips out of her collar, too) and I didn't know what else to do." I was dumbfounded. And honestly, friends, my stubborn, hen-pecking self still didn't let my accusations toward Pit-Bull man resolve. All night, since it was a Sunday evening and I couldn't call the Humane Society yet, I had visions of my poor dog, locked in this guy's basement while he used her as a bait-dog for his ringleader. That is, until this morning, when the lady at the Humane Society was kind on the phone, telling us Maddie really was there, and safe, and ready to go home. With a lump of humility in my throat, I decided that the man down the street who ultimately rescued my dog, F.K.A. Pit-Bull Man, was probably not a bad guy at all. I still have no confirmation as to whether or not his pit-bull is being used for fighting, but I really just need to believe she's not.
Sadly, these realizations didn't just flood over me this morning. I've had guilt-ridden little hints of them all along. My neighbor (and friend) was right, when she said to me last night, as she delivered the plate of fabulous cookies that I already admitted to eating in an aforementioned statement, "maybe this guy is actually a really good guy and he's really done the the best thing he knew to do for Maddie..." and I had one of those guilty moments of "yeah, that's probably true, and definitely what I should be thinking instead of what I am thinking."
I wonder if humility comes easily to others, or if I'm the only one who obviously struggles. I know it's hard for people to admit their faults, and much easier to hide behind the faults of others, making accusations that often distort reality.
I had a long time theory about a very important person in my life. I thought she was overstressed, a little high-strung, and often seemed unapproachable. At least to me, because I was always worried I'd upset her. Yesterday morning, in our place of worship, she admitted a history of life-shattering pain, and a more recent history of medication used to calm the mental illness that has formed in her body as a result of her being a victim to abuse for decades. The truth was, her medication had been adjusted so many times lately, she was struggling to do anything at all, and that is why she seemed so moody. I sat, numbly, in my seat, listening to the horrific details. This time, guilt flooded over me. It didn't come in little memos, like it usually does. I had pegged this woman completely wrong. And I had never even thought twice about it.
What I now know is this: when God sends you those little memos that say "hey, think about this a little more. Do you really think you should jump to that conclusion?" perhaps I need to listen up. Because He'll also intervene, once in a while, with a flood that says "Hey! That's my child too, and you need to love her! You don't need to know the circumstances. The only job I give you is to love." So, that's that. I need to work on it. There's my final admission.
Oh, and instead of a plateful of cookies, I suppose I should eat a slice of humble pie.