Carping Criticism and Exhaustion and Peter's advice for a healthier home

 

“Rid yourselves of all spite, deceit,

hypocrisy, envy and carping criticism.

Like new-born babies all your longing

should be for milk…”

1 Peter 2:1-2

 

 

It has been a little while since my last reflection.  It is strange how the world has continued moving while I find myself growing more and more still.  Not by choice, I’d say. Though I did throw my back out by reaching over to pick up a postcard (getting an MRI--tomorrow).  And it’s not that I’ve been sick. Mostly, I am just exhausted. I can’t seem to find the energy I once had. Can’t even find enough energy to focus my thoughts. When I get out my pen and begin to scribble a line or two on a page, a bit of mindless musing, I find that—without meaning to—I stop mid-sentence and by the time I notice, there is a blot of ink forming on the page. If I open a book to read, I fall asleep before I get past the first paragraph.

 

Most of the time, I find myself sitting blank eyed in front of the TV watching Hallmark movies or searching through the channels for something old and black and white; something I have seen so often I don’t have to think about. One thing I know for sure, if Franklin Pangborn is in it, I will probably like it.

 

But, why am I so exhausted? Is it work? Is it poor diet? Not enough sleep? Lack of exercise? Mid-winter blues? Covid fatigue? Mourning?  I’m not sure.  But, those voices inside of me keep whispering: Get back to work. Don’t be so lazy. You say you want to be a writer; why aren’t you writing? Or reading? Or washing the dishes? Have you seen the sink? By the way, the trash needs to go out. And don’t you have a class tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be planning a lesson? Have you noticed how tight your pants are getting? Might want to hold off on that bowl of popcorn and go for a walk. While you’re at it, you forgot to call your Dad. What kind of son are you? Did I mention your pants? You may need a new belt. And have you checked the garage toilet paper supply lately? Better add another 24 pack to the list!

 

It is in this context, that I happened to read this passage from the first letter of St. Peter, and in this context that the phrase, “carping criticism,” stung my soul.    

 

Because of my situation, my initial thought was of the criticism in my own head, so much of it self-directed.  How useless and destructive such criticism can be. Instead of inspiring myself to find joy in my life, and perhaps to get up and do something that I will find satisfying and fulfilling, I carp and criticize myself, nag myself about how lazy I am, or how sloppy I’m getting, or forgetful, etc. I attack myself with criticisms and leave myself wondering why I should even bother trying.  Negative self-talk, carping criticism, can become a self-destructive habit. And can prepare the ground for an often forgotten sin: sloth.  In the secular world, we think of sloth as laziness, an unwillingness to work.  It seems bad, but hardly worthy of being a “Deadly” sin.  But, in the spiritual world, sloth is seen as something far more dangerous.  It is akin to despair—a kind of hopelessness that hides behind questions like: What’s the point?  And if we beat ourselves up enough, we will simply sink into that despair and find ourselves giving up.

 

But another aspect of this teaching, that occurred to me was outwardly directed. I thought about the carping criticism that lurks within a husband and wife noting and tallying each other’s mistakes, each misstep, each failure of judgment; recording them in some emotional bank account, or on some psychological tape-loop of misdeeds, failures and marital infractions that plays continuously in the back of the mind. Reminding us constantly of past hurt feelings and disappointments, making sure that we never forget, that we cling to each and every one of them.  And making sure the other knows that we are watching them. We remember… each dish left in the sink, each greasy skillet left on the stove, each broken promise, each and every forgotten toothpaste tube that was left uncapped, or every time the toilet paper roll was left empty!! Check the garage!

 

Carping criticism is the weed of dissent that we sew ourselves, into our own hearts, into our homes, into our friendships and marriages.  St. Peter lists it alongside spite and envy, hypocrisy and deceit.  I think he does this because he knows that all these things are related.  I criticize someone else because (on some level) I envy them. I envy that they are enjoying themselves and I am not. I envy that they are at peace, whether napping or reading a book, scrolling through their emails, or watching Hallmark. And I am standing in judgement of them, not because of anything they have done—but because, like the hypocrite I often am, I want to be at peace doing “nothing.” I want to enjoy a moment of rest. 

 

The carping criticism that we hear in our own head, that whispers to us words of resentment and spite, it isn’t just bad self-talk. It is a seed being planted, whose fruit is discord and conflict.  Don’t let that seed take root.  If you need rest, take it.  God declared that we should rest, and He declared it good.  So, instead of fighting your exhaustion with a to-do list, close your eyes and take a nap.  If Hallmark movies give you some pleasure and renewal, then watch a Hallmark movie. Let yourself disappear into it completely and enjoy it.  And have a bowl of popcorn, too!  When you feel rested, you’ll be ready to handle that sink full of dishes.  But, don’t stand over them sighing and fuming about who dirtied which cup or which bowl; let yourself offer the work of washing as a prayer for your family, for a friend, for peace in your own heart.  And let each dish be dried with quiet care and a whispered, “Thank you.” Let that be the beginning of your new outlook. Gratitude for the chance to serve another, and a special gratitude if no one notices what you are doing.  As you put away the dishes, bless each one; think about the person who will use it next, and let that blessing be for them.  I hope this doesn’t sound to Pollyanna. All I am saying is this: if your feeling exhausted, it could be because –like me—you are. You are trying to do too much and trying to do it all perfectly.  And disappointing yourself that often can be quite exhausting. 

 

Dear Lord,

let me rest in You,

trusting that all I have is from You,

even my weakness and frailty

is part of Your plan.

Whether I am waking or sleeping

or washing dishes,

I give it to you.

I am Yours.

Walking in the darkness, listening for the silence --some thoughts on Psalm 19

“…not a sound to be heard…”

--Psalm 19:3b

 

 

Walking this morning in the hour before sunrise, I was struck by the depth of the darkness still visible; the depth of the shadows cast across the lawns and into the bushes. Looking up, part of Orion’s belt still lingered high above the treetops.  I was reminded of the night before when my daughter and I had been out walking sometime between nine and ten. As we walked, I commented to her on what seemed to be a difference between the darkness of morning and the darkness of night. And it was not the one I had expected.  In fact, quite the opposite; it seemed to my eye that the darkness of night was more bearable and even somewhat brighter, and that the darkness before dawn was somehow deeper and more impenetrable; perhaps even a little more unsettling.  It was as if nature herself were confirming that old adage: it is always darkest before the dawn.

 

But another aspect of this is the silence.  Before dawn, walking the streets, I am often alone.  Not a soul out, except for the occasional possum slinking off to a day’s rest after a night of foraging. But at night, as Lucia and I walked, there were still sounds of life all around us.  Cars coming and going, people closing up garages, or pulling trash cans to the curb, neighbors out walking their dogs or riding their bikes.  There was activity, signs of life.  And, Lucia pointed out, there were porch lights and driveway security lights to dim the darkness just a bit.

 

But back to this morning’s walk. This morning, on my walk, I was stirred by the stillness and the silence. Pausing in the middle of the street to look up into the lingering remnants of the night, I felt the wonder of the silence and the intensity of the darkness. And for a moment, a deep and impenetrable sense of my own incompleteness and isolation swept over me.  For a brief moment, I felt utterly alone. Yet I was not afraid.

 

I don’t know how long I stood there, before I noticed the headlights of a car stopped some 20 feet away, the driver patiently waiting for me to get out of her way.  I smiled and moved toward the curb and let her pass.  There could only be one reason to get in your car before dawn: a doughnut emergency. And I certainly didn’t want to stand between a driver and her Shipley’s.

 

Her car crept past cautiously, and she nodded, then drove on. Watching her taillights disappear around the far corner, I figured it was time to head home, so I turned around and started back.  And this was when I noticed something else.  The world around me was stirring, scattered birds had begun calling to the dawn, the shadow of a squirrel crept down into the damp grass, testing the cold, and in the distance I could see another person out for their morning walk. Clearly, I had never been quite as alone as I felt in that moment.

 

Walking home, I was heading east and I could see the first rosy glow of dawn blossoming on the horizon. The darkness above it fading into a soft bruise of blue and red. It was beautiful and comforting.  Curiosity made me stop and turn and look back the other direction. And with a kind of strange elation, I realized that behind me I could still see the night.  At one end of the street, the sky was filled with darkness, the moon smiled, and a single star still glistened. And at the other end, the day was breaking.  And in the middle was me… getting positively silly with wonder.

 

Psalm 19 begins with this thrilling image of God’s glory being proclaimed by creation, the day speaks of it to the day and the night to the night.  Not a word is spoken, the psalmist says, but the message is clear, and it reaches the whole world.  Just look around, and even in the darkness of night you will see it –the glory of God’s love is luminous.  It lights the darkest of nights and even the darkness before the dawn is filled with it.  But, to see it, to sense it, to hear it, to know it, we have to pause and look and really listen. We have to listen to the stillness.

 

“…no utterance at all, no speech,

not a sound to be heard,

but from the entire earth it arises,

a message reaching the entire world…” (cf. 19: 3-4)

 

And that message, sung by all of creation, that is our Light.

 

Presence and silence—the witness of Job’s friends

 

 

“The friend who holds your hand and says

the wrong thing is made of dearer stuff than

the one who stays away.”

--Barbara Kingsolver

 

“They sat there on the ground beside him

for seven days and seven nights. To Job

they spoke never a word, for they saw

how much he was suffering.” –Job 2:13

 

I’ve been thinking about the importance of presence lately, of just showing up. Just being there.  The willingness to step up to the plate, whether you are a 300 hitter or a .177 hitter, whether you have already struck out the last three times up, or you hit a homerun and 2 doubles; the willingness to go back out there and step into the batter’s box and face whatever the pitcher has in store for you.  There is a kind of courage and hope in just showing up. In that willingness to risk going from hero to heal in just the swing of a bat. Think about it: bases loaded one out, Jose Altuve comes to bat and –sometimes even the greats strike out, or worse--hit into a double play.  But, one of the things that makes them great is their willingness to take the risk, their willingness to just show up.

 

The friend that Barbara Kingsolver describes in the above quotation is like the utility player who shows up every day ready to play.  He knows most nights he won’t even get off the bench, but every once in a while there is that moment when he’s called. And no matter where the coach sends him, he says yes.  Will he make a few errors? Of course. Will he strike out or foul out or bunt into a double play? Yes. It’s gonna happen.  But, he is willing to be that person who says yes, and puts himself out there. If baseball is any reflection of reality, then possibly even ¾ of the time he will “say the wrong thing,” or get an out (in baseball speak). But, every night he will be there. Ready to go. Willing to take the risk, ready to hold somebody’s hand…so to speak.

 

As I read Barbara Kingsolver’s words, I think the point she is making is that it is really about presence.  Being present. Showing up.  The power of someone sitting beside us, silently holding our hand, is immeasurable.  It witnesses to us that we are not alone. In our hour of need, we are not abandoned. And that witness reminds us of something else: that we matter. We matter enough that someone made an effort to come and see us, to come and sit with us; enough that they are willing to give us this portion of their life, this 15 minutes, this half hour or more. They give it to us because they want us to know—we matter.

 

So—just showing up, very important. Heroic even.  But there is something else I want to say about the friend who shows up.  As we cared for my mother-in-law, there were days and days when all we had on our minds was medicine schedules and meal plans: what will fix for lunch or dinner. When is it time for the next dose of morphine or the next dose of anti-nausea meds. What snack should we fix and have ready before hand.   Even simply sitting with her as she napped, everything felt fraught with anxiety and worry. It was exhausting. And when a friend would call or stop by to check on us, there would be the immediate temptation to say: We are fine. Thanks for calling.  Talk to you later.  A temptation to wave away the distraction so we could return to what? Our stress and our anxious  waiting?    That was a habit that it was easy to fall into.   But with time, and the persistence of our friends, something I learned was the healing power of distraction.  A chance to sit with a friend and grieve is invaluable. But, we shouldn’t neglect the importance of a chance to talk about something other than medication schedules and hospice care, a chance to remember that there is more to life than bed sores and bedside toilets. That friend who refuses to leave us to our own devices, that friend who keeps us on the phone or sits with us –even in silence—is often the friend who draws us out of our darkness into the sunlight where we find ourselves laughing about something ridiculous or simply basking in the beauty of a breeze drifting through the leaves. For me, there were friends who showed up and let me moan and unload my struggles, but then stuck around for one more pot of coffee and some silliness that left me smiling and unexpectedly renewed.

 

Laughter, conversation, and company renew us for the work at hand, but it also reminds us there is still a world outside of our suffering, a world beyond the shadows of our sorrow.  

 

That being said, let me turn for a moment to the famous friends of Job.  These guys are famous not for their wisdom or consolation, but for the wrongness of their advice.  In fact, they are the poster boys for bad bedside manner, most famous for blaming the victim.  And yet… they showed up.  They even sat down with Job for 7 days and 7 nights in silence, out of respect for his sorrow.  They were models of presence. Of showing up.  If Kingsolver is right, and I suspect she is, then I wonder how Job felt about these friends afterwards?  Did he resent them for their poor theology? Or did he hold them as dear, because when even his wife was telling him to “Curse God and die…” these guys showed up. And they stayed.  Letting Job know, he mattered.  And that even in his hour of need, he wasn’t alone. I am rereading the Book of Job, and I find something has changed in my view about these friends of his.  Despite the wrongness of their words, I am starting to think: at least they showed up.