The other day after we dropped Brian off at the airport for his trip to Utah, I took the two little boys to Burger King for lunch. They have a nice indoor play area there, which the kids love.
I hadn’t planned on doing this—it was Brian’s suggestion on the drive—so I hadn’t brought anything along to read while the kids played. We had finally joined civilization and gotten a cell phone this past August, so I had that with me and could have called someone to chat, but I realized that I don’t have any numbers memorized except for my own, my husband’s office, and my friend Sabrina’s. It was Wednesday, so I knew she wouldn’t even be home—she’d be in town for her marketing seminar. (One of these days, I am going to program some phone numbers into that cell phone!) I felt like a dud, with no one to call.
Thankfully, I happen to always keep a smallish pad of paper and a pen in the diaper bag, to keep the kids entertained during times when they have to sit quietly through church. So I decided to start a letter to Sabrina, the only one of my friends with whom I still exchange old-fashioned letters.
The boys were playing, and I was working on the letter, when a couple of ladies came in with their kids and sat down nearby. They put their kids at a separate table, and while the kids ate and played, the women chatted. I wasn’t deliberately eavesdropping, but there was no way to avoid hearing their discussion.
I don’t mean to be a gossip myself, but they were mainly talking about other people, a stupid-but-mostly-harmless television program, and the one’s “accidental” pregnancy (apparently the result of a physician’s telling her she didn’t need to go back on the Pill while she was still nursing—”oops,” indeed.)
Normally in a situation such as this, I would long to be a part of the conversation—to meet potential friends and feel included.
Not this time, though.
The discussion was so secular—focused on things of the modern world—that I simply had no interest in it. Though I could not help but overhear, there was nothing in me that longed to join in. I realized that I had a real peace in my heart, just sitting there watching my boys play and writing to my dear friend.
No sooner had I written the words, “I am at peace,” then I found myself having prideful thoughts. You know like in that Bible story where the Pharisees are there praying with their arms raised to heaven, thanking God that “I’m not like that awful sinner over there.” That’s how I suddenly felt. It was automatic; there was no stopping it. Perhaps it was not as overt, but the hidden sense was there nonetheless: “I’m so glad I’m not a negative, gossipy, obsessed-with-trashy-TV-shows, contraceptive-using woman like that!”
Instantly, I was humbled.
No matter how far we think we’ve come in our walk towards holiness, there is always, always more—always another notch to be taken down in order to be raised up to Christ.
I had to silently pray a few Hail Mary’s to get my head and heart back in order.
Is the only way to avoid pride and lack of charity to wear earplugs?
For now, maybe it is. I am, for better or worse, a work in progress.
