The Cruel and the Thoughtless

When the libraries are shut down, it can be a lifesaver to bump into a reader whilst out for a stroll. Then you can negotiate an exchange. I got my hands on Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. 

I'm not usually into whodunit books (I prefer to watch them, courtesy of BBC via PBS). But Horowitz was the writer of Foyle's War, one of my favorite series (Foyle is a detective solving murders in England while World War II rages).  

Magpie Murders was quite gripping, to the point I shamelessly let Ben play with my phone (in airplane mode, so he can't call Luke's doctor friend) so I could finish it. 

There were two quotes in there I found intriguing. 

One: 

In fact, Fraser had often heard the detective remark that there was no such thing as a coincidence. There was a chapter in The Landscape of Criminal Investigation where he had expressed the belief that everything in life had a pattern and that a coincidence was simply the moment when that pattern became briefly visible.

The detective, I should note, is a Holocaust survivor who is a professed atheist. 

Two: 

OK, I don't have the actual quote, because I failed to memorize the correct page on Shabbos. I didn't have the energy to start rifling through a few hundred pages to locate it, and then my sister-in-law popped by and she desperately needs books the way I do, so I handed it off. 

So, as best as my memory can summon it: Cruelty and thoughtlessness have the same results. 

Or something like that.   

Han was telling over something he had read by a black Jewish woman. She is constantly hurt by people who make assumptions that this is her first time at a frum simcha, or that she is a guest as opposed to part of the family. She has gone home in tears more than once. 

But here's the thing: I'm FFB, and I've gone home in tears from people's comments as well. You don't have to be obviously different to suffer from stupid assumptions or unfiltered words. 

There are those who are malicious, and will tear others down, knowing what they are doing is mean. But most people are simply thoughtless. There is a direct line between their mental dialogue and their mouths. They don't intend to be hurtful. They may even think they are being considerate and sensitive. 

I've been guilty of that too. I recently made a friend (I know! Me! A friend! Call the papers!) and I have, in our last few meetings, consistently screwed up. I made assumptions, and said mindlessly hurtful things because of that, thinking all the while that I'm so nice. 

And I've been doing it over, and over, and over! Yes, I do have baby brain and about a year's worth of sleep debt, but even so, couldn't I use that filter thingie that I wish other people would use? 

I'm a card-carrying grudge-aholic. I still think about the time in high school a girl said to me, "You're tall," and I said, for lack of a better response, "Thank you," and she said, "I didn't mean it as a compliment." It was almost TWENTY YEARS AGO. Like, GET A LIFE, PRINCESS. 

I have to cut other people slack, because I wish they would cut me slack. It's hard to make a response in the socially acceptable time frame after properly thinking it through from every possible angle. I think, "Yup, sounds good!" and then as soon as I have uttered it, think, "OMG, did I do thaaaaat?"

Most people are clueless, not malicious. Most people are trying their best, and we really don't know what burdens other people have. 

So when this COVID mishagaas is over, and I finally socialize again, someone will say something to me that will upset me. If I am aware enough, I will remember that I am not perfect either, and may actually let it go.  

What I See

A few weeks ago, a frum periodical fielded a question—the writer's friend is "a bit much," and she finds her too draining. Can she withdraw? The magazine didn't really answer the question, I think. 

Two letters were printed in the following issue. One said that the writer should be honest, tell the friend her feelings, and the friend will totally understand (not likely, in my opinion). 

The other letter decried the modern mantra of "honesty" and "self-care" at the expense of hurting another, which she says is the antithesis of our faith (that's leaning more to my view). 

This example of how two people can look at a situation so differently has made me realize (yet again) how we cannot judge. People just see things from different perspectives. One viewpoint may be right—for that person. Another viewpoint might be wrong—for that person.  

For me, I have never learned properly how to keep a not-good friend at bay. I am not proud to say I may have resorted to ghosting for lack of better options. I could not be honest, because in essence I would be saying, "I do not enjoy your company, as there is something wrong with your personality." Sometimes two people just don't jive, like in shidduchim. 

Nowadays, perhaps I would try to make some boundaries. Pick up the phone when I feel like I can handle her, then say that I don't have much time to chat, ten minutes max. I thought it was amazing when I discovered I could say, "I'm sorry, I have to go," without giving any reason whatsoever.

Perhaps because it's the miserable time of year, but I've been thinking a lot about sinas chinam and whatnot. 

We all aren't the same. We all see the world differently. That's what happened by the Eitz HaDaas. Before, we could only see truth and falsehood, which are objective; now we see good and bad, which is subjective. My good is your bad; your good is my bad. 

It's not about honesty. It's about tolerance. It's about kindness.  

Learning Kindness

I'm wondering when I'll finally get over having been an "older single." I still identify as such, even though I officially left the moniker behind more than two years ago. 

I have recently been filled with feelings of . . . well, I'm not sure how to put it. 

I was single. I was dating for over a decade. Han showed up when he was supposed to show up. 

So, I could have spent those years feeling the way I wanted to feel, that Hashem has my man tucked away somewhere and when the time is right He'll produce him. In the meantime, therefore, I should simply be.  

But that wasn't allowed. Because whenever I tried to invoke Him, I was told, "No, you have to do your hishtadlus." Yet, what is hishtadlus? It means different things to different people. 

1. It means cold-calling "shadchanim." 

2. It means going out with every guy who's suggested. 

3. It means going to singles events. 

4. It means tackling every male within site and demanding marriage or else they will never draw breath again. 

When I executed as much "hishtadlus" that I felt comfortable with, and was still single, we moved on to other territory: What I must be doing wrong.  

I wish I could say I was confident enough to ignore the naysayers, but I wasn't. I would blog about it, listing proofs as to my normalcy, pleading with my audience to concur that I wasn't a freak, right?  

Either way, finding a spouse was on me: I wasn't doing enough hishtadlus and/or I was a nutter who cleaned her toes during a lobby date. 

I could have been more chillaxed in that time, instead of battling breathing-into-a-paper-bag anxiety. I could have seen my life as more than "pathetically single" and, perhaps, have utilized my time differently. Maybe I would have gotten into sourdough earlier. 

I'm doing that annoying 20/20 hindsight thing. Based on parental hopes alone, I would have still been a nervous wreck. But did others have to rub it in? To make me feel like you-know-what? 

Sigh. 

I suppose one thing I have certainly learned is that whenever that judgy inner voice starts piping that it's "their fault," I shut it down. Or try to, at least, which is more than I used to do before. I think I have become a kinder person after being subjected to wagging fingers for a decade. Everyone has their own burdens. Whether it's their fault or not is besides the point. 

So let's be kind.

Biblical Win-Win

I had an epiphany a while back, but life ensued and I was not able to type it up. It's kind of random, but whatevs. 

In the Torah, there is that bit that if you see the donkey of someone you hate struggling with its burden, you are supposed to help the hated one, even if your best bud who is standing next to him could use a hand. 

Sometimes the Torah gives us the means to be the most annoying. 

If you can't stand someone (and we assume the feeling is mutual), the one thing they do not want from you is a favor. It makes them choke to be beholden to someone they don't like. 

Let us say (and I am totally not speaking from experience, cough cough) there is a shadchan who drives you mad. Your profile needs constant editing (according to her), your pictures are no good (according to her), and for all that nitpicking, her shidduch suggestions are waaaaay off base. 

It would aggravate me to no end if she would end up being my shadchan.

So: Help out the guy with whom you have a feud. Because that'll make him want to explode. Win-win.  

Told Ya

My sister isn't as obsessed with makeup as I am. But I'm managing to corrupt her, bit by bit. 

After a shopping outing when I made a point to reapply my lipstick (with a lip brush), she texted me a few days later that she did the same before taking the car to the mechanic. 

"Everyone is so nice," she noticed. 

Yuuuuuuuup. 

To Judge Favorably

One morning, I was off to the cleaners. 

I hadn't had a very restful night. I had a vivid dream about Ma, and after awaking in the wee hours, couldn't fall back asleep. So I was driving rather single-mindedly, dimly focusing on the bumper in front of me and no further. 

My cleaners has a parking spot on their property; if occupied, one has to turn into the metered lot behind it. A large van had its blinker on in front of me; in my fugue state, I thought it was turning into the lot, not the spot. So I slid in to the spot. 

The furiously waving arm cut through my mental fog. Apparently, the van was intending to back into the spot, and I had stole it. He then blocked me in, glaring all the while. I knew I should have been apologetic, but I was taken aback by his anger and I was also very tired, compromising my judgement. 

He stomped into the cleaners after me, banging as he went. I was scared to engage with simmering resentment, smiled cheerfully at the owner, and scurried out. He probably intended to take his time leaving to punish me, except that would delay him too. 

This incident made me think of dan l'kaf zechus. If he knew my explanation—not excuse—would he have been more understanding? "I had a dream about my dead mother last night and I couldn't fall back asleep so I wasn't a very aware driver this morning so I didn't realize you were backing in." 

I doubt he was dan l'kaf zechus me. Yet it made me realize how much more I should cut others some slack. Because we just don't know what goes on in other people's lives. And we hope others don't bear us ill will for a bad night's sleep.

How to Stay Sane While Dating: VIII

Before I began dating, I was a wide-eyed, gullible innocent. I grew up, B'H, in a wholesome home. I was truthful to the point of self-incrimination. I truly thought that the world was the same. 

Well, I learned otherwise soon enough. 

Even though I had been bullied and teased in school, I associated that behavior with children, not adults. I didn't realize that "grown-ups" are just as capable of interacting with others by less-than-noble means. 

I also naively assumed that those who called up redting had my best interests at heart. It was more like "good enough for yenem." He's a wonderful boy! For you! Not my daughter! No way! But for you, perfect! 

Slowly, to avoid post-date barfing, I began to toughen up. I knew I could no longer believe anyone—and I mean anyone. The self-proclaimed stranger shadchan certainly didn't know me. But when close family and close friends began messing up, that's when I knew I was pretty much alone in this.

It doesn't mean I morphed into a hard-eyed, tough-talking jade. I like to think I maintained my composure, refinement, and dignity (in public, at least. I ranted enough behind closed doors, to fellow single friends, and on the blog). 

Staying politely firm to one's convictions by straightening the backbone can be a challenge. 

Han says that who, in the end, gets the happy ending, the title of "hero"? It's the person who didn't give in. That remained true to his (or her) values, struggling through the obstacles, and emerged—muddy and sweaty, valiant and triumphant—at the top.

Those who gave in, those who "settled"— they don't get the closing movie credits of swelling violins. Would you root for the character who sold out? Not likely. 

The shidduch world barriers are different from ToughMudder, but no less exhausting. Your supposed advocates may turn on you and call you "picky." You will be harassed by complete strangers to go out with their suggestions, who on paper, are totally cray-cray. You will go on dates that you knew were fruitless, and may have to hurt and reject and feel like scum. You will develop heightened senses for detecting potential false information. You may have a frustrating dating drought, and then when a shidduch finally comes your way, wish you were back in that drought.  

I probably left out a few other givens, but you get the point. 

Discover your strength. Not bitterness. Strength. The strength that comes from self-belief and self-conviction.

How To Stay Sane While Dating: Intro

My mother-in-law was approached by a woman who had heard of Han's marriage. "I was so happy to hear the news," she enthused, "and then I heard how old the kallah was, and I was even happier!" 

Aw, gee. 

32. The advanced, decrepit, elderly age of 32. 

"Older" singles? You thought the stupid comments would end with your wedding, right? Oh so cute. Nope. Because stupid comments are a certainty, like death and taxes. 

Han and I (still!) commiserate over our single years. What was most difficult about those times wasn't necessarily being single—we had our health, our family, comforts of the first world. There was a yearning for that which is missing, yes, but the true angst came from elsewhere. 

People. People and their comments. People and their suggestions. People and their condescension. People and their bullying.  People and their well-meaningness that resulted in . . . chaos.

It can drive one to violence. I usually kept a mental picture of Sing-Sing as a deterrent.

I had complete strangers telling me "not to be so picky." I was grilled by self-proclaimed shadchanim about my preferences, redt something else entirely, then berated for politely declining. I went out in the name of "being open," to be held hostage by the so-not-shayach.

It is at this point when one realizes that no one—or, at least, very very few—is on one's side. Excuse my Yiddish, but there is usually a "good enough for yenem" policy. We are born inherently selfish. The secret is to keep it on the down-low. 

The single has to turn inward and alter one's viewpoint, because madness is inevitable.  

And so, I give you our new series: How to Stay Sane While Dating. First segment coming next week.   

Happy Choices

Sometimes a random scene from a random show sticks with me. Like the episode "Blood is Thicker Than Liquor," of the defunct Girlfriends. 

Toni, the unlikable, self-centered real estate agent who fought her way up from her working-class upbringing, has it out with her sister Sherri. While Toni lives a glamorous life in L.A., Sherri lives at home, cares for their alcoholic mother, and works at the local Walmart knock-off. 

Toni, in typical Toni fashion, disrespects Sherri for staying. She thinks Sherri is angry at her for "having the strength to leave." Sherri retorts that Toni didn't have the strength to stay. 

But she admits that she resents Toni for leaving, but not how she thinks. Sherri reminds Toni that she was the one who raised her (as their mother was usually out of commission), and now Toni belittles her. Chastened, Toni thanks her, then offers her help to "get out." 

Sherri looks at her in surprise. "Toni, I chose this life. I'm happy. I just want you to respect that."

People assume the oddest things about me. They don't realize that I live my life the way I want to. 

While waiting for the Novocaine to kick in, my dentist and I chatted about traveling. She can't stay home, even on a day off—she has to get out of the house. Me? Pajamas are my default state. 

She's miserable where I am happy, and vice versa. My idea of an accomplishing Sunday is concocting a fresh batch of sauerkraut and watching 60 Minutes. (Now you know why I blog anonymously. If I admitted such a thing in public, I'd be pilloried.) 

Certain lifestyles come into fashion, and certain activities are considered a "must." Some people don't know themselves, so they are puzzled why they aren't happy on a spontaneous getaway with a bunch of friends. News flash: Maybe you are happy in your own bed, in your own home. It's not a crime. 

For those "stuff-doers," I wish you well. I can even summon some tolerance for you folk. 

As long as you leave me alone.

Don't Judge For Me

Tznius. How I hate the term, and what it has come to mean. 

I'm a prude. I favor my maternal Zeidy, a European gentleman for whom my Babi considerately cut back on her salty speech. I do raise an intolerant eyebrow or two when faced with excess skin or uncouth tongues—but I still cringe at the term "tznius." 

Vanessa Friedman, a fashion reporter, wrote "Don't Ban Photos of Skinny Models." She does concur that standard advertisements feature women of only one body type, which is not good if people accept that as the norm. However: 

It’s not just because, as Mr. Khan or any other parent well knows, banning something simply makes it much more intriguing. . . 

It’s also because to judge a body healthy or unhealthy is still to judge it. . .

Just because a judgment is supposedly coming from a good place does not obviate the fact that it's a personal judgment, handed down from afar by a third party, bringing another set of prejudices and preconceptions to bear. The message in this case is that women, and young people, are not able to make such distinctions on their own. Yet that power — the ability of each individual to decide on her body for herself — is one we should be cultivating, not relinquishing.

We are surrounded by a lot of information and a lot of messages. I would rather be the one making the choice of deciding what is right or wrong for me than having strangers claim to know my triggers. 

Eating disorders have been around for centuries, in times when plump women were considered attractive. I grew up fanatically playing Barbies, but it never occurred to me that her plastic body was something to aspire to. She was stuck in heels all the time, for goodness sake. 

If I have a brain, it can be assumed that I can figure some things out without being "protected."  

To ban an ad depicting a specific body type is to demonize that type, labeling it publicly as bad. It also suggests that it is even possible to look at a woman, or a photo of a woman, and know whether she is healthy or unhealthy. That’s a misguided idea, as Claire Mysko, chief executive of the National Eating Disorders Association, acknowledges: One individual can have a seemingly normal body mass index and still have a tortured relationship with food and her physical self; another can look almost bony, and be fine. You can’t tell from the outside.

Body types, metabolisms, and lifestyles differ as much as personalities. My niece is skinny, and eats bountifully. Others may think she doesn't.

So with tznius. "What is tznius" are arbitrary parameters that are based on personal opinions that are usually biased. It encourages judging, and officially, again, people, Jews ain't supposed to judge, for that's the Eibishter's job. His alone.  

“The solution to body-shaming isn’t to limit the number and kinds of bodies we are exposed to,’’ said Peggy Drexler, assistant professor of psychology at Cornell University, and the author of “Our Fathers, Ourselves: Daughters, Fathers and the Changing American Family.” “The more sorts of bodies young women see — fat, thin, short, tall — the better they understand that bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and that theirs fits in somewhere.”

Barbie came out with dolls of various body types, and the line, I believe, is doing well. There isn't only curvy—there's also tall and petite, along with the original. We come in so many types of packaging. 

What is or isn't tznius isn't up to me, or you, or her, and I hope not him. But we can agree on what it means to be nice. I think we can.  

I am Teflon

All (at least most) of us have our triggers. Some barbed remarks slide off like a bundtcake from a well-oiled pan; others stick like burnt paprikash. 

The comments that float unheedingly by, while barbed, don't excite the immune system the way others do—those flip, supposedly innocent words that awaken the self-questioning monster within. 

As the Good Book (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) says: 

One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right?   

Ford Prefect (an alien) deduces: 

At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behavior. If human beings didn't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths would probably seize up. After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working.

Think once. Think twice. I am so very, very frightened of brainlessly opening my mouth and unintentionally awakening another's insecurities. The worrisome part is that one can't know what may be another's perceived weakness. We all have our baggage, and my baggage is not yours.

 

In Henry Alford's "The Remarkable Shelf Life of the Offhand Comment," he opens with an incident where he was thoughtlessly admonished to be "a little more effusive." As I can relate, that critique haunted him for years, haunting all social interactions. 

As the article relates, there are a few types of shots: 1) the statements that reinforce our personal fears; 2) the remarks that make us question our beliefs/taste/self; 3) comments that are so mind-boggingly stupid that they trigger sensations of superiority and, in turn, guilt. 

To illustrate type 1: I have—bless genetics—epic dark circles. I am familiar with every means to cover them up, yet for the most part some purple leaches through the layered concealer. I receive plenty remarks casting aspersions upon my night's sleep or general health to shake my faith in ever looking good. 

To overcome these shots, one can 1) Be snarky. However, in my experience, that rarely achieves anything. Usually the other party is blankly humorless, and will not grasp the point. 2) My preference, which is to be compassionate. While it is not an excuse, when under stress, disciplining the mind-mouth connection can be difficult, and the "better left unsaid" slides out anyway. We've all had our moments. Cut 'em some slack. 

As for those transgressors who make it quite obvious that they are being bi—, um, catty, all I can think is "nebach." How sad that they are such miserable human beings that nastiness gives them an ego boost. 

A dangerous possibile outcome is grudge nursing. Grudges can become part of one to the point that shedding it is the equivalent of cutting off a toe. Let it go. Please let it go. For all our sakes.    

My Modesty

I am currently reading Love in a Headscarf by Shelina Janmohamed (I'm not sure where I had heard about it, but I think it was on a frum blog). The book is less about the histrionics of an "older" single, more over-explanations of Islam. 

Nura Afia, one of the new faces of Covergirl

The author's repeated insistence that Islam advocates love, not hate, made me think of our often frantic reactions when an outsider asks questions about Judaism. Won't they just think we doth protest too much?

We shouldn't have to be on the defensive, even if approached with a flat statement, as opposed to a curious inquiry. Janmohamed is constantly accused of being brainwashed and subjugated by the religious men in her life; frum women have experienced the same. 

If someone has an unmovable opinion, my gushing will not change anything. Better to not engage. In the future, I think I will simply shrug and say, "If you say so." 

Roger Cohen explored this gap in "Olympians in Hijab and Bikini" (this article was printed during the Olympics, but I have a backlog of pieces to link). He shares two opinions, one of a girl who voluntarily donned the hijab, another a non-Muslim who is studying in Iran, and so must abide by the culture there. The latter is not happy.

In terms of Jews, mode of dress is a constant, tedious conversation—perhaps because there is no set rules. We don't sit around pontificating about kashrus, as those laws are clear. When it comes to clothing, it's all about subjective perspective.

Janmohamed emphatically insists that the hijab is her choice. If anything, one of her frustrations in dating is that many single Muslim men want her to take it off. 

We've all got bechira. As to all our choices, to everyone's choices, let it be assumed that it is their choice (whatever it may be). Then leave it at that.   

Communication is Futile

Amie Barrodale precedes her new collection of stories, “You Are Having a Good Time,” with an epigraph attributed to a Bhutanese lama by the name of Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche: “There is no such thing as communication. There are only two things. There is a successful miscommunication, and unsuccessful miscommunication. And when you have unsuccessful miscommunication, you are having a good time.” All of the stories in this stark and cutting collection grapple with our failure to communicate, and investigate not merely the woeful inefficiency of language itself (although that’s bad enough) but also the inherent impossibility of truly understanding another person’s internal state.—Nicolas Mancusi

A large percentage of communication is non-verbal (the exact number is up for debate). That's why I find texting exhausting; lacking the quirk of my eyebrow, the twitch of my nose, the flick of my fingers—emojis don't always do the job right—I am positive my message is coming out wrong. 

Not only that, we don't know, even when we think we know, where other people are coming from. How can we communicate successfully when vocabulary means different things to different people, when different experiences excite different reactions, when what is hateful to me is bliss to you? 

We might as well just try to have a good time, then.  

Eyes

On Super Soul Sunday, Oprah (shudder) featured Rob and Kristen Bell, the husband and wife team of Zimzum of Love. 

That's right. Zimzum. As in "Tzimtzum."

They admit it is a kabbalistic concept. As the blurb explains, "Zimzum is a Hebrew term where God, in order to have a relationship with the world, contracts, creating space for the creation to exist. In marriage, zimzum is the dynamic energy field between two partners, in which each person contracts to allow the other to flourish. Mastering this field, this give and take of energy, is the secret to what makes marriage flourish."

Aright. 

I have not read the book. What I am sharing is a concept they shared with Oprah during the program. 

Rob explains that he's impulsive by nature, a leaper as opposed to a looker. His wife is more deliberate, slower to act. (In Meyer-Briggs, Rob is a Perceiver, while Kristen is a Judger.) When he gets psyched about something and is gung-ho, Kristen tugs him back. Once he would have been frustrated by her hesitance. 

Then he realized that when one marries, one gains another set of eyes. "Help me to see what you are seeing," he now asks her. In addition, he goes further, every child one has also contributes further "eyes," obtaining even more perspectives.

We all see the world differently, which creates differences in opinion. Arguments are usually about demanding that the other sees things your way. Yet the only way to achieve resolution is by comprehending what the other sees. 

This isn't just about couples. This applies to any relationship.    

Self-Righteous Isn't Righteous

If you focus your awareness only upon your own rightness, then you invite forces of opposition to overwhelm you. This is a common error. Even I, your teacher, have made it.— Children of Dune, Frank Herbert 

The opposite of faith is not doubt, it's certainty.—Annie Lamott

Never confuse righteousness with self-righteousness. They sound similar, but they are opposites. The righteous see the good in people, the self-righteous only the bad. The righteous make you feel bigger, the self-righteous make you feel small. The righteous praise; the self-righteous criticize. The righteous are generous, the self-righteous, grudging and judgmental. The righteous are humble, the self-righteous are proud. The righteous understand doubt, the self-righteous only certainty. 

Once you know the difference, keep far from the self-righteous, who come in all forms, right and left, religious and secular. Win the respect of people you respect, and ignore the rest.—Former Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks

In "Bookends: Are There Any Unforgivable Sins in Literature?" Rivka Galchen tackles self-righteousness.

For me, the unforgivable sin in literature is the same as that in life: the assumption of certainty and the moral high ground. That words like “righteous” and “pious” are often used to suggest the contrary of their original meaning is ­telling. . . 

But sometimes it’s difficult not to be certain. On more days than I’d like to admit, I find myself walking down the street in an all-too-certain righteous rage about other people’s righteousness; I’ll read an essay or story with horrified suspense as it delivers some sermon on a mount, but then I myself indulge in assured despising — that’s a sin, too. I admire a pope who says, “Who am I to judge?” and a book that reads as if thinking is something ongoing, not something that is ever absolutely done.

Although Jewish, she was exposed to two types of preachers. One called her a "heathen," even though she knew the New Testament better than he did; the other, a beloved supplier of pizza. 

Pizza Preacher said some Christian thinkers had argued that there couldn’t really be unforgivable sins, because that would mean that a person could do something that limited God’s will — limited God’s ability to forgive. That seemed wrong, right? Surely that couldn’t be the case.

I have a number of wince-inducing memories of my forays into self-righteousness, from my five-year-old youth to my 20-year-old stupidity to my really-should-know-better current age. When I try to remember the sensation that took hold of me at those times was my absolute conviction in what I saying or thinking.

Having resolute assurance is . . . well, nice. There's none of my default, debilitating dithering over my actions. I'm not second-guessing my words for once, debating if I had spoken too hastily with excess emphasis. Being adamant has the emotional equivalent of warm fuzziness. 

But we are not here to be sure of ourselves. We aren't supposed to be, until the day we die. Pirkei Avos says so.   

Sigh. Bye-bye, warm fuzziness.