How much harder is it to be kind?

My sister told me a story this evening that really upset me.

My 13 year old nephew was inducted into the Junior Beta club today. My sister, her younger kids and our mom went to the ceremony. My nephew who is ten is autistic. He is a beautiful, sensitive child who is not like most kids his age.

As they were waiting for the ceremony to start, Ryan sighed several times. A "lady" sitting next to him turned to him and gave him a dirty look. Ryan sighed again, and this "lady" said, "What is the problem?" She repeated herself several times, loudly. My sister finally looked her in the eye and said, "What IS the problem? Is he bothering you THAT much?"

She went on to explain Ryan's developmental delays and other issues that contribute to his occasional verbalizations, and ended with the question, "Do you think you could just try to understand his situation?"

The exchange makes me sad and angry. Ryan's appearance is definitely a clue that something is not "normal" with him. His speech is not exactly age-appropriate, and neither are some of his mannerisms. I'm angry that this woman could (or would) not recognize that the "problem" with my nephew might possibly be beyond his control. I'm sad that my sister had to share personal information with a stranger and that she had to demand respect.

Have we as a society lost our ability to be kind? Is it really that much harder to be nice to someone? To be patient, even when we are in a hurry? To be tolerant, even when we feel uncomfortable?

I hope that this woman was just having a bad day, and that when she thinks about this later, she feels a little sheepish.

I want to challenge my readers to go out into the world and disseminate kindness, where the world would sow impatience and intolerance.


"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. "Colossians 3:12-14

I'm using mine up now.

I have a theory about life.

I think that we are all allotted a certain amount of meanness and profanity to use up in our lifetime.

If we don't use it when we are young and in our right mind, then it comes out later when we are senile.

I've been working in long term care for ten years now, and I've developed this theory after observing residents and their families. An angelic-looking elderly lady sits in her wheelchair with her eyes half closed. Whenever she is approached, she suddenly opens her eyes, glares and lets loose a stream of four letter words and colorful suggestions as to where the intruder can go or where the intruder can put whatever medical device he or she is holding.

Her family is horrified. They have never heard their mother say anything like that. One lady's daughters told me, "We never even knew she KNEW those words!" They were appalled and embarrassed, and asked if we could keep her in her room with the door closed so that no one would hear her saying such horrible things. (No, we couldn't do that, actually.)

One of my favorite residents enjoyed talking about sex in very graphic terms. She seemed to take sadistic pleasure in making male visitors and staff members squirm uncomfortably.

At the other end of the spectrum are the residents who smile beatifically at everyone who passes by. Some of them wave pleasantly, or invite everyone who passes their room in for a visit. Their families are often just as confused as the other families. "I don't understand," one very nice lady told me once. "Daddy was always a mean SOB; he never had a kind word for anyone. I don't understand why he is being so nice now."

Maybe he had a change of heart and decided he wanted to be ready for heaven. Or maybe he had used it all up.

At any rate, after watching these folks that I love so much over the past ten years, I've decided what I need to do. And I am using mine up now, while I can still enjoy it.

I encourage you to do the same.

Then we can sit together at the nursing home, smile at each other and let our children scratch their heads.

Are we recovered?

Someone asked the question today: Are we recovered alcoholics? Or are we just alcoholics?



On the surface, it seems to make little difference.



As I thought about the question though, I realized that for me, the difference is huge. It is very tempting for me to think that I am cured of my addictions, that I have recovered. But that's a very dangerous place for me to go. When I believe I am recovered, then I can convince myself, yet again, that I can drink successfully; that I can drink just like everyone else. And if I choose to go in that direction, there is a steep, very slippery slope waiting for me.



As a nurse, I often use my medical knowledge as the framework for understanding other issues. When the question about "recovered" versus "recovering" was raised today, I immediately thought of chronic diseases such as diabetes or COPD. Both of those diseases are characterized by physical symptoms that can be controlled and/or alleviated with a simple daily regimen of medications, monitoring and good choices. Both diabetes and COPD are also characterized by periods of exacerbation, which can be caused by poor diet or lifestyle choices or skipping medications. The diabetic who chooses not to take her insulin is likely to suffer from high blood sugars leading to ketoacidosis and coma. With proper treatment, she can recover from the acute exacerbation, but will still always be diabetic.



That's what alcoholism is like for me. I have a disease which is progressive and chronic. There is a treatment for my disease which allows me to control the symptoms and avoid acute exacerbations. The treatment includes going to meetings, talking to my sponsor, reading the literature, praying and meditating daily, and doing service work to help carry the message to others who are still suffering. If I choose to quit "taking my medicine," the outcome is absolutely predictable and inevitable: I will drink, and eventually I will either die, or I will just wish I had.

I can't "save up" on my treatment and then slack off. Consider the diabetic. It would be pretty crazy for her to give a week's worth of insulin on Sunday and then skip the rest of the week.

I've been given a daily reprieve which is contingent upon the maintenance of my spiritual condition. And I'm so grateful for that. I don't have to worry about tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year. All I have is today, every day.

I hope that I'm never "recovered." I always want to have the joy of seeking, of pursuing sobriety as though my life depends upon it.



Because it does.