Being Good

I’m not.  Good, I mean.  I’m not good.  Not that I’m bad, exactly.  Like, I don’t kick blind dogs or anything.  But I am for certain, and always have been, pretty self concerned.  And fearful.  And angry.  And lazy.  Reluctant.  And very jealous of my time and freedom of movement.  I don’t know how I ever managed to bring up children, which pretty much requires none of the above—and, in fact—all that is opposite these things.

I know women who are good.  They are the first to show up when bad things happen.  They bring food.  They take responsibility for other people’s kids.  They remember other people’s birthdays.  And they never forget other people’s children’s wedding receptions.  I am afraid of women like this.  Mostly, I suppose, because their willingness pretty much decimates any chance of my being happily graded on the curve.

Ask me to babysit your kids (and I am addressing my own children along with the rest of the world) and I will politely decline.  I’ll do it if the situation is extreme and everybody else you know is dead.  But I won’t like doing it, and I will keep my eye desperately on the clock.  I would be willing enough to buy food and bring it to you, but I probably won’t think to do it.  Even when I finally do things that are nice, I spoil it by suspecting that I have just done a nice thing, which instantly cancels out the “nice” part.

Here are the people I admire: the ones who, when asked to pray in front of a group, do it simply, sincerely and earnestly without once thinking, “Wow.  That came out well.”  Actually, let’s just say that I admire anybody who does anything for somebody else without thinking something along those lines.  I admire people who are not their own audiences.  Whose faces face out instead of inward.  I believe that is what selfless might mean, anchor points outside of what might otherwise be the middle.

I have to say this: I am willing to do things for myself.  To be fair, my definition of self is not uncomplicated.  I suppose it begins with me.  But it’s expandable.  I was going to say that it takes in, probably first, the people who hold my comfort and welfare in their hands, but as I think about that, I realize it isn’t true; there are plenty of people who could deal a good old whack at my comfort and welfare who are just utterly not included in my self.  I guess what I’m trying to define here is love.  My self includes the people I love.  Some simply because I admire their character.  Some because I think they’re interesting.  Some because it was impossible for me not to love them once I knew them.  Pretty much all of these are people I have reason to respect.

Inside that self are my children – I was going to say “of course,” and  I think in the beginning that may be true.  But in the end, for even my own children to stay neatly tucked away in that essential pocket, I have to respect them as people.  And so it is with family.  And so it is with friends.

It’s presently a little after eleven o’clock in the evening, and I am sitting in the semi dark of a hospital room at the side of a bed that holds a beloved person.  A sister of my heart.  I will sleep in this chair tonight as I did last night, tuned to the sounds of moving blanket and distress.  There are few places else in the universe that I could be at this moment and still be real.

I will not say much about her here, except perhaps this: there are few I have known who deserve more of my respect and my utter service than this girl.  Strong, lovely, honest, selfless—and just now, in  a deal of trouble.  I sit helpless by, unable to mitigate her pain, unable to stand between her and whatever this thing is she’s going through.

I stand over her, saying soft nonsense, touching – hoping that somehow I can suck some of that dark energy out of her into my stocky self, or that I can let something of my health flow through fingertip and skin to her heart.  I can’t stop the hurt.  I can only recognize, as I look down on her, that the face I see, framed in waves of untroubled and opulent hair, reminds me of so many paintings:  a Christiansen angel.  A Kershisnik Angel.  A Rackham angel.  Honestly, she reminds me of Mary, the mother of Christ.

My daughter said to me, as I dragged myself home this morning from last night’s vigil, “You are a good friend.”  But I have to hand that back to her with regrets.  A good friend is someone who does what she does not have to do for someone else.  This is heartwork.  It will earn me no heavenly points. I am only serving myself again.

Why is it so hard to be good, and so very, very easy to be ashamed?