The Thorns Within

Many years ago, a wise friend noted our tendency to compare the inside of ourselves with the outside of others.  “It’s not a fair comparison,” he insisted.  Through the ensuing years I’ve come to appreciate his insight. Most of us do a reasonably effective job of sanding smooth our rough exteriors and sharp edges so that what others see is glossy and urbane.  Even when we know it to be a highly curated presentation, it still looks better than the unvarnished splinters that snag and bloody our internal self-assessment.  “Everybody around me is so ‘together’; why am I such a mess?”

It is, as my friend, pointed out, an unfair and dishonest comparison.  

So far as it goes. 

It turns out that it only goes half way, as the hollowed out tree helped me to understand. 

We haven’t really a clue as to what is going on inside those around us - what daggers and thorns are piercing their inner mind and soul. What griefs and disappointments, what slights and disillusionments, what fears and stunted aspirations. We really don’t know what makes those near us tick - or hurt, or ache, or vote the way they do, or react the way they do, or hope for what they do, or recede into silence the way they do.

I haven’t a clue what is jabbing their insides.

Prodding.

Embittering.

Wounding.

Frightening.

But I can ask. And patiently listen. And wait for the timid animal of authentic truth to emerge. 

And wonder what kind of a balm Gilead - or I - might have to offer.