Skip to main content

the Fool

Yesterday I started my morning off with a brief conversation with someone I don't particularly like. I've never had a good conversation with this person before, not once, and when I realized it would be necessary to strike up a conversation yesterday, I gritted my teeth about it. And then we talked, I got what I needed, the person was pleasant, I was pleasant, and not a minute of it was a burden. I walked away surprised by joy and playfully kicking myself for having such a bad attitude about it in the first place.

This is a lesson I've been learning over and over again recently. It's been a circling theme, and just when I think I've learned it well, I step right into it again. I begin with a preconception, however justifiably formed, that something or someone is difficult, unpleasant, unjust, a threat to my security. And then I'm proven wrong.

I was reminded this morning of the Proverb about "if your enemy is hungry." It can be hard, learning to bless your enemy. But it's a different kind of hard to assume the worst, and to receive food and drink instead. It's startling when you find yourself receiving the burning coals of a generous, unwarranted gift, because as it turns out, you are the enemy. Your own worst. Thinking about it gave me a different view of the whole book. In the long, dancing narrative of Proverbs, I was the fool.

Most of these cyclical lessons I'm learning don't involve me being an enemy, but they do involve me being the fool. Assuming, being proven wrong, over and over. But there's a great delight in that. I hope I'm always willing to have my assumptions undone. I suspect it's a lesson I'll be learning for a long time yet.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

window in the sub

Dear Nathaniel, I am microwaving pie that Mom bought up in Oak Glen this week on her way home from the orthodontist. As I put it in the microwave, I was full of sadness that I was not in Oak Glen with her. Why did I not go? I was working. I want to see the trees turn. I want to wander slowly through autumnal gift shops. Under the water, you cannot sense the approach of the seasons. Even here it is difficult because, after all, it's California. But I can still sense it. After three seasons in Illinois and one in Scotland, it must be with me for good. Or at least for a while. Because I am all abuzz with eagerness for fall and winter, for turkeys and dried leaves and Santa. I should start cooking again this fall. Fall foods are my favorite. Baked squash dripping with melted butter and brown sugar, pumpkin soup... this year, if I have enough money, I will put together a holiday dinner for my friends. And we will drink Scandinavian mulled wine, which is the most wonderful thing I have e...

Again in Gilead

I just finished reading this for the second time last week, thanks to the forever book group of Grace. It was equally as lovely the second time around, and while reading it, I wrote down a dozen more quotes from the incomparable Ames, who is both too beautiful a man to be real and too beautiful a man not to be real. (I'm grateful and amazed to know a few like him.) "It has been my experience that guilt can burst through the smallest breach and cover the landscape, and abide in it in pools and danknesses, just as native as water." (p.82) I have found this to be remarkably true. I see it in myself, and in many others as well. "I believe there are visions that come to us only in memory, in retrospect." (p.91) This seems to be about the only way I experience visions, but because memory is a rickety thing, I tend not to trust them much. Which makes me a poor prophet. "I know, too, that my own experience of the church has been, in many senses, shelte...

At the close of nine years

I'm moving to Texas in less than two months. I've lived in Long Beach now for nine years. Already I have stacks of books covering my dining room table that I'll be reading for my PhD program in the fall. I've quietly begun the tedious work of sorting and cleaning everything in my little apartment. I'm scheduling all of my last days with friends, moving through my calendar in reverse order from when I expect to slip into my car and drive away. This is the longest I've lived in one place, so I've never really experienced a leaving quite like this before. I remember the day I left Wheaton, closing the bedroom door on my best friend, walking down to Chaeli's car so she could drive me to the airport. (The greatest grace of Texas is that she will be there. Some friends we never lose completely.) I remember leaving California for Scotland—walking away from my mother in the Palm Springs airport. We leave people who have changed us, and we leave places that ha...