When It Arrives at Your House

It looks different.   It feels different.  It acts differently.  Because it now lives in your home, your sanctuary. The three-alarm fire trucks can't get to your place fast enough! It, whatever it is, didn't matter so much when it occurred around the corner or in a neighboring state  Why? Could it be that criticism and cynicism are learned behaviors?  And so is selfishness, which if left unchecked, distorts thought and vision.

It seems much easier to "see the speck that is in your brother's eye. but do not notice the log  that is in your own eye?" (Matthew 7:3).   Why can I be as tender as a Mother's love about my shortcomings but tougher-than-nails about a friend's or foe's?  Why? Truly. I. Don't.  Know.  Except it's easier to look outward than inward. I can brush the lint off another's clothing, especially if I know her only superficially or sporadically.

The phenomenon, however, might fit into a long-held "theory" I named "The Concept of Biography." Here's how it works:  It begins innocently enough.  I meet you at a party or event, introduce myself, and listen as you share your name, where you're from, your vocation, and the reason you're there. We engage in chit-chat and move on.

With each subsequent encounter, perhaps over months, I add to your biography. With minimal effort, my imagination embellishes the storyboard I'm concocting about you. Confidently, I'll add a relationship based on a snippet you might casually have shared.  I add presumed religion, political affiliation, service clubs, and foibles that take on deeper meanings as my pen races over the pages and chapters of an invented life.  

Significantly, I never differentiate between my improvisations and who you know you are. Denying the essence of you!

Everything (my plotline) moves along splendidly until you behave in a way that doesn't fit my creative efforts.  Horrors! Conflict ensues when I refuse to give up my concoction to accommodate your righteous, steadfast, accurate pathway.  

What have I done? I've negated your authenticity with my inanity.  And how often do I do it?  How often do I leave my insular machinations to actually hold myself accountable to something or someone other than a fertile inventiveness? 

Goodness! Please forgive me.  Brush fires or even forest fires, could result from less provocation!