Envy

“At heart, envy boils down to this: everyone else has it easier than I do.  And so they are obviously happier than I am.”  -- James Martin, The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Anything.
 

Envy always seems to be with me.  To paraphrase one of my favorite priests, it is my default sin.  The one that keeps coming back no matter how many times I confess it, how many times I try and avoid it, there it is again rooting its ugly head.  With envy, there is a tendency to maximize my own difficulties and minimize my blessings while at the same time, maximize another’s blessing and minimize their difficulties.  My life is hard.  It is a unique hard.  It is a hard like no one else has.

Envy is comparison.  If only I were more outgoing, less chubby, less awkward, more confident . . . blah, blah, blah.  This implies that somehow, how I was made, how I am built, and how I tick is not good enough.  My personality type is an INFP, also known as the healer.  For those not familiar with the Myers-Brigg it can be summed up this way:  I am an introvert that is slow to process information, slow to engage in conversation until I have had ample time to observe and organize my thoughts.  I dream big, but my dreams are fueled by a deep sense of values.  And this means I am not one to focus on details and small tasks.  And I am flexible and adaptable to my surroundings with a lack of consistency and strict discipline.  INFPs are rare – less than 2% of the population.  Only rarer are the “mastermind” INTJs (my husband – aren’t we a fun pair!)  I did not decide to be an INFP – it is who I am; it is how I was made.

When I am writing or doing psychotherapy, being an INFP is a perfect fit.  For those moments, I am comfortable in my skin.  I can celebrate who I am and how God has made me.  When I step out of that, I start to compare and criticize who I am.  If only I were a more consistent parent like my sister-in-law . . . if only I were more disciplined in my eating and fitness then I would not have a muffin top . . . if only.  I begin to envy what other women have and assume that they have a problem-free, easy life.  

As I was told by the same favorite priest – with envy, there is no room for love.  When I compare, I begin to assume the other’s life is better than mine and I begin to resent them.    But more than this, I stop looking at the blessings in my own life.  I stop celebrating how I have been uniquely and wonderfully made.  I slap God in the face and tell him he screwed up in making me and he should have made me more like that person over there.

The cure?  Love.  Love who God has made me to be.  Accept the personality, passions, and biology that I have been given.  Focus on who I am and use those gifts.  Play the part I have been given.  I had a dream several years ago that I was an oboe player in a symphony and my job was to play measure 47, a B-flat (it was a very vivid dream).  I did not like the part I was given.  I wanted to play a different note.  But to resist the part I was given would create a cacophonous sound.  The beauty of the symphony is everyone playing their part in harmony.  If I hear the teachings of St. Paul correctly, we are one body with many parts – a foot is to be a foot and not try and be the nose.

And the rest of the cure?  Love my neighbor.  The envious stance of minimizing the struggle and maximizing the benefits of others is not loving.  It is assuming – making judgments without taking the time to know the person.  This is objectifying the other; stripping them of their personhood.  They are only what I make them out to be.  Everyone has their share of blessings and struggle.  If I take the time to truly love my neighbor then I suspend my assumptions, take time to hear their story and walk alongside their journey.    

Where there is pure love, there is no envy. 

Recalibration.

Every few months I get the “weepies.”   It is that feeling that something is wrong, things are out of whack, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.  My weeps usually last a couple of days and then all returns to normal.  I typically blame it on hormones – PMS, premenopausal junk . . . and it is possible that this is not helping.   And without a uterus, it is a little difficult to know exactly what is happening physiologically with my body.  For the few days of the weeps, I do not talk much, making a PBJ is a chore, and I am completely irritable and impatient with everyone around me.  And every time it comes, I ride it out knowing it will only last a couple of days, and then when the storm clouds pass over, I return to life.  In other words, do not try and understand it; do not try and fix it.

This time was different.  One, my mom saw it written across my face.  She usually does and lets me be (smart woman!)  This time, she suggested perhaps I needed to drill something – like shelving in a dysfunctional closet and make it user-friendly.  Yes.  I needed that.  I needed to build and make something better.

And the word “need” came up.  I needed something.  I do not like to need anything.  I took a different course and claimed what I needed.  I needed my husband to hold me and listen.  I asked him to sit with me.  He did.  I laid my head on his lap.  He put his arms around me shoulders.  I tried something new -- I talked.  My oldest daughter, in a giggling tone, suggested that I kiss him.  I did.  She giggled some more. 

Instead of silently stuffing the weepies back down I began to process what was going on inside my brain and soul.  Truth, I am feeling lost and out of balance and I need to recalibrate.  I have big questions – who am I?  What does it mean to love my neighbor and look after the poor and orphans?  How can I sit atop of so much when much of the world is starving?  I feel guilty for having abundance.

In my teens and twenties, I was convinced I would change the world, or at least make a valiant effort.  I had big ideas – starting orphanages, shelters for the broken, relief centers amongst the starving, free counseling services for those who cannot afford it, a home for those recovering from sex slavery . . . I dreamed and thought at least one of these would become reality.   I would find my Calcutta and pour my life into it.  I would take something dysfunctional and make it better.

And then I got married and had three amazing children.  I married someone calm and practical who helps keep my feet on the ground.  As my primary vocation shifted from ministry to motherhood, my lofty ideas began shifting further and further away.  I stopped looking for Calcutta and began burying my dreams.  Stuffing them down until I cannot stuff anymore and then they seep out giving me a case of the weepies.

We joked in grad school that the answer to any marriage and family therapy question was “both/and.”  In other words, I do not have to choose either Calcutta or motherhood.  It is both.  In fact, I think I need to look harder.  Not only do I have a Christian responsibility to love my neighbor and take care of the poor and orphaned, but I also have a duty as a parent to pass on that ethic.  And children do not learn by mere hearing, but by doing and observing how it is done.  

There is a lot of praise for Pope Francis from both Protestants and Catholics alike.  Pope Francis is not just a man of mere words, but one whose actions back up his faith and beliefs.  So far, I am impressed and excited.  As Holy Father to the Catholic Church, he is shedding light on how to be parents – love Jesus with our heart, soul, mind, and strength.  Believe it, say it, and do it.

Who am I?  I am still trying to rework that.  Wife, mother, therapist, nursing school student, dreamer, wannabe writer, nature-lover – these things I know.  How shall I live?  Loving God and my neighbor.  And what does that look like?  Maybe it is time I stop focusing on the ideas of how to do this and just start doing it with those around me at the moment.

And perhaps if I keep my eyes opened, I will find Calcutta right in front of me.