Lying Hurts the Liar
I came across this post in an old archive. The author was writing to teens about the Monica Lewinski scandal, but as I read through his wise words, I found myself thinking how appropriate the words are for all age groups:
Lying Hurts the Liar
If you lie, it will make things worse for you, too. Oh, you might get away with it once or twice, but you will get caught sooner or later.
How Does Lying Make Things Worse?
Lying makes things worse because it hurts your personal relationships: relationships with friends, brothers and sisters, parents, children, teachers and other adults.
Think of it for a moment. When you lie, it is a burden you have to carry with you. It makes you feel bad inside. You know you hurt your relationship with someone by lying. It violates the trust people have in you. Usually you have to lie again to cover up the first lie, and you feel even worse for doing that.
Have you ever noticed how badly you feel when you discover a friend has told you even a little lie? It hurts a lot. You wonder why a friend would do that to you. You think about it a lot, and you just don’t trust your friend as much after that. It’s not the same.
Then think about how you feel when someone is telling you what a good, good friend he is, and then he goes behind your back and says just the opposite. It destroys all trust.
A Way You Can Understand Lying
When you become a friend to another, you put your life in some small or large way into his cupped hands. You trust the person by putting part of your life in their hands. You want and need your friend to be worthy of that trust. When they lie to you, he lets your life slip through his hands, and is not worthy of your trust. How lonely that feels! How disappointing!
Lying harms not only personal relationships, but business relationships as well. In conducting business we also put ourselves into the hands of others. Our business associates need to be worthy of our trust. Take the simple example of going into a store and buying a box of chocolate chip cookies. The picture of the cookies on the box looks terrific. The chocolate chips look tasty, but you open the box at home and find cookies with no chips. You feel cheated because you believed what you saw. You believed a liar. No wonder you feel cheated. No wonder you’ll probably avoid that brand in the future.
Why Are We Tempted to Lie?
We are tempted to lie because we want something and use a lie to get it . . . That sounds a little selfish, doesn’t it? No wonder lying makes us feel lonely. No wonder the devil is called the father of lies.
We lie because we believe it will make things better. So you shoplift, and when questioned, say: “If I lie I won’t get caught. If I’m caught, they will be mad at me. I want to avoid the pain.”
Once we give into this temptation to lie, we start lying some more by saying: “I want to spare my loved ones the pain of knowing what I did.” So you try to spare them that pain by lying to them. That doesn’t make sense.
It’s like saying: “I’m not going to admit I robbed the bank because it will upset the police.” What kind of nonsense is that?
How Do We Respond When We Are Caught Lying?
Our response is usually to say: “Everybody lies. So what difference does it make?” The trick of a good liar is to attack the accuser. So when another kid accuses you of lying, you say: “Well, I heard you lie once.” It’s the “look who is calling the kettle black.” Attacking the accuser does not make the lie less a lie. It is still a lie. It still hurts relationships.
Your trying to justify lying by saying everybody lies is like saying: “Everybody hurts their loved ones so hurting loved ones must not be so bad.” Do you really believe that since so many people steal, stealing must not be so bad? It’s like saying everyone makes your life miserable so being miserable must not be so bad. This doesn’t make sense.
Why Are These Rationalizations Wrong?
Lies decrease the love we have for one another. They diminish hope. They extinguish trust and belief in one another. Lies are morally wrong.
Why don’t we just say: “Let’s forgive and go on with life?” Forgiveness makes us feel good, and like anything, it can be taken to excess. For example, if a person has no remorse, don’t forgive him just so you can feel good or look good. It mightily confuses the liar. Likewise, don’t forgive someone who has done nothing wrong. It confuses others.
On the other hand, don’t hold onto forgiveness as a form of vengeance. “I won’t forgive you because you need to suffer some more.” That’s like saying until you extract a pound of flesh, the score is not even.
The action of appropriate forgiveness is an action making the situation better . . . it produces a good set of outcomes. Failure to forgive in a situation where forgiveness is warranted makes the situation much worse.
It doesn’t do any good to censure a person who feels no shame, who feels no guilt. He will just make more excuses.
On the other hand, it does a great deal of good to refrain from censuring a person who already has censured himself. This is the person who really feels guilt and tries to make amends. Failure to forgive here is inappropriate.
It’s also good to remember that there is a difference between forgiving and condoning. Condoning diminishes the action. It’s inaccurate and it’s a cop-out. The religious call to forgiveness is not a call to be a sucker. If what was done hurt you, you need to say that, and not pretend it didn’t hurt and it doesn’t matter.
At every point a person has a choice to forgive or not forgive for the right reasons. Conciliatory personalities tend to forgive too much, too quickly. Aggressive personalities tend to forgive too little, too late. We need to strike a balance.
Is it Hard to Forgive After the Lying Has Stopped?
Yes, it is a lot easier to forgive when the person is trying to make up to you for all the lies he told you. Even then, it takes a long time for forgiveness to settle in. Why? Because the hurt is still there.
It is rather easy for a person who lies from time-to-time to quit. It can
be done rather readily if there is determination to do so. What about a person who lies habitually over a period of time and cannot quit easily or without consistent help? A habitual liar will be tempted to believe he just has to say he’s sorry, just as a habitual drinker will tend to believe all he has to say is he’s sorry. It doesn’t work that way. On the other hand, bull throwers, braggarts and exaggerators are a tiresome lot, but they are easier to get along with than habitual liars.
How Is Lying Made Worse?
The bigger the role model, the worse the lie. If someone I hardly know lies to me, it is bad. However, it is much worse if my mother lies to me. She is a much bigger role model in my life. That makes the lie worse.
That’s why the President falls off a mountain when he lies. Yes, he falls a great distance, and if he lies over and over again, he falls an even greater distance.
You may say that if we raise the bar too high, no one will run for public office. Then all we will get is the biggest bully or the guy with the most money. That’s really not our problem. The problem is just the opposite.
We need to raise the bar high enough so better people will run for office. We need to restore the expectation that includes honest behavior. The solution is not to take the bar away. To put it another way, if many people are lying, the solution is not to approve of lying, but rather to rekindle the fires of devotion. Otherwise, human flourishing is diminished.
Every time we see someone shoplifting in the store, we need to cry out: “Thief, thief!” Similarly, every time we see someone lying, we need to call out: “Liar, liar pants on fire!” We will be better off with fewer liars, not more.
These are just some of the reasons why the good Lord tells us not to lie.
Here is the source of the article: Girls and Boys Town.
It FEELS Personal
A good friend who is also a psychologist often talked about how things FEEL personal even when they are not.
• When your best friend betrays your deep dark secret to another friend because she lacks self confidence and it made her feel important for a couple seconds
• When your young wife sleeps with your brother because after two babies she wants to feel exciting and attractive and young again
• When your brother uses drugs again, after you paid for rehab and he swore up and down he would never never use again
• When your father divorces your mother and leaves her to raise the kids alone
• When your oldest friend in the world stops returning your calls and communicating with you and you later learn that she if fighting a losing battle with cancer
• When your aging husband buys a small red convertible and turns you in for a younger model, too, because he wants to think he’s hot
• When your internet phone service is declared illegal and gets shut down to spare “government wastage”
In every case above, the situation has more to do with personal issues than with you, but man, it sure FEELS personal. The fact that is doesn’t have to do with you is almost insulting, because the impact can be so painful.
And so it is with internet service. This morning, I was missing internet service for a while. It happens sometimes, but rarely longer than three-four minutes. This time it went on and on. Of course my first reaction is “oh no! Am I being penalized for having written about internet phone service being blocked???” But no, this time it wasn’t all about me. It was just an outage, and – for now – just temporary. Alhamdallah!
But this policy is going to impact on all of us painfully. Please, please raise your voices. You know better than I do where it will be the most effective. It’s important that we be able to communicate with our family and friends in a reasonably priced way. The internet phones don’t hurt anybody. Let’s keep them legal.
Read and Comment from WordPress
This is to my non-blogging readers, those who have never commented, those who think you have to have a blog to comment. . . you don’t! There are ways to sign on with most of the major blog hosts and you never have to use your real name, never have to blog, but you are registered, have an “avatar” and a “home”.
WordPress just initiated a global desktop, just for you.
What’s new? Before, people who didn’t have a blog but just an account didn’t have any sort of dashboard so they couldn’t edit their password, get their API key, upload an avatar, track their comments, or any of the other fun stuff you can do under your dashboard.
Read more about it here and click to start your own global desktop.
You will want to have two or three names, just in case your first choice is already taken, and you will want to have a password in mind. Sign up, and start commenting from your own home base at WordPress.
Party Busted
Wouldn’t you love to know the rest of this story? I sure would! From today’s Kuwait Times:
Detectives arrested a group of over 40 Kuwaiti and Western students of private school who were enjoying themselves at a private party in a very luxurious apartment in Salmiya, said security sources. Officials added that some neighbors heard them arguing in the building’s parking area about who would be allowed in and who would not be; for not contributing in the party’s expenses. An hour later, the apartment was busted and the strangely dressed young people (in devilish costumes) were arrested along with the building’s security officer who rented them the apartment.
My comment: Sounds to me like these kids have too much money, and too little sense, a la Risky Business. These are school kids??? And what were the costumes?
Saturday Low Statistics
Saturday mornings are also a little slow for me, so this morning, as I looked at my statistics, I thought I saw a pattern. I counted back every seven days, and, sure enough, every week my statistics take a small dive on Saturday.
I am guessing that the quality of what I publish doesn’t vary that much, but that the majority of my readers come from places where they have a Saturday – Sunday weekend. Saturdays are always busy days for getting things done – getting the new garden in, getting shopping done, bringing in the groceries for the week, if you are a working Mom, going hiking or boating or some activity you can’t do during the work and school week . . .
Last night we visited friends who had just accomplished a major project in their garden here – transferring palm trees. It took a crane and a whole team of people to dig the huge holes, dig the trees out of one spot and transfer them to another. What an undertaking!
It was one of those lovely evenings in Kuwait – our friends were relaxed and enjoying the glow of having accomplished a major task, the evening was soft and sweet, and the fire glowed with eucalyptus wood. I came home smelling so good, and knowing it was one of those evenings I will long remember. Kuwait in February – the sweetest time of year.
Tomorrow is Kuwait’s National Day, and the day after that, Kuwait Liberation Day (from Saddam’s troops), so the Kuwaitis are enjoying a four day weekend at this sweet time of the year. Some have taken holidays in connection with the five day weekend (somehow Saturday became a weekend day, too, because it is sandwiched between the Thursday-Friday weekend and the Sunday-Monday holiday) and made it a full nine or ten day holiday.
Happy Holidays to all our Kuwaiti friends.
Donna Leon: Read and Savor
When I tell you about Donna Leon, I am really introducing you to a friend. I can’t remember when we met, but I can tell you that I seek her out whenever I can. Just listing her books, I realized there were several I hadn’t seen and I ordered them immediately, from the Amazon re-sellers.
“Why the resellers?” you are asking. Donna Leon is not that easy to find, in the United States. Some of the books in her series seem to have been printed only in the UK, which is a pity, because The Donna Leon books really need to be read in order.
While they can be a quick read, they are better read slowly and savored. It’s not that hard. Her humor is subtle, sometimes even sly. Commissario Guido Brunetti, her main character, lives in Venice. He has a family, a sweet wife – Paola, and a daughter and a son. He eats Venetian meals, he lives in an illegal Venetian apartment, he has a glass of wine or two with his lunch. It helps to read the books in order, as his children grow from childhood to teen-agers, and to grow older with him as he solves his cases.
But in Donna Leon’s books, solving the cases is not the goal. As often as not, even while Brunetti solves the case, justice is not served. The books are about the living conditions and social realities of life in Venice, and in Italy. The books are about painful subjects – child prostitution, traffic in women, blood diamonds and African immigrants, and about art fraud and Mafia crime and big business. And the book is about Venetian and Italian interconnections, so that some crimes just disappear, some evidence just disappears, and Brunetti’s dunderhead of a boss tells him to just look the other way.
While each book is deceptively short, and written in clear, simple language, the books are richly complex, weaving a myriad of details into each page.
Thanks to Donna Leon, I know what it is like on a cold, rainy day in Venice, when the water rises and you have to try to walk on raised boards to get where you are going. I know what it is like to have a family emergency and the police vaporetto is in use elsewhere and to try to figure out the fastest way to run home, crossing bridges, grabbing a taxi, complicated by the canal system and tourist infestations in Venice. I know when policement get together for lunch in Venice, you don’t talk business until AFTER you have finished your exquisite pasta with truffles, accompanied by a glass or two of the fabulous house wine. Donna Leon has taken me there.
In Death and Judgement, the book I just finished, Brunetti is called by a police sergeant who has arrested a former police sergeant and wants Brunetti to come to the station. Brunetti’s conversations with the arresting sergeant always require a lot of patience:
(Brunetti) “Did the people in Mestre tell you to make out an arrest report?”
“Well, no, sir,” Alvise said after a particularly long pause. “They told Topa to come back here and make a report about what happened. The only form I saw on the desk was an arrest report, so I thought I should use that.”
“Why didn’t you let him call me, officer?”
“Oh, he’d already called his wife, and I know they’re supposed to get one phone call.”
“That’s on television, officer, on American television,” Brunetti said, straining towards patience.
We’ve all been there. Dealing with those who think they understand, and their understanding is . . . imperfect.
In another part of this book, in which the major issue is the big business of trafficking in women for prostitution, Brunetti is having a conversation with his wife:
Paula pulled gently on his hand. “Why do you use them?”
“Hum?” Brunetti asked, not really paying attention.
“Why do you use whores?” Then, before he could misunderstand, she clarified the question. “Men, that is. Not you. Men.”
He picked up their joined hands and waved them in the air, a vague, aimless gesture. “Guiltless sex, I guess. No strings, no obligations. No need to be polite.”
“Doesn’t sound very appealing,” Paola said, and then added “But I suppose women always want to sentimentalize sex.”
“Yes, you do.” Brunetti said.
Paola freed her hand from his hand and got to her feet. She glanced down at her husband for a moment, then went into the kitchen to begin dinner.
If you are reading that interchange too quickly, too superficially, you will totally miss the significance of the last sentence. If you have been married a long time, you will totally understand that a whole lot happened. This is one of the things I love about Donna Leon.
Death at La Fenice
Death in a Strange Country
Dressed for Death
A Venetian Reckoning
Acqua Alta
The Death of Faith
A Noble Radiance
Fatal Remedies
Friends in High Places
A Sea of Trouble
Willful Behavior
Uniform Justice
Doctored Evidence
Blood From a Stone
Through a Glass Darkly
Giving it Up for Lent
Lent started today, our own holy season of repentance and fasting. When I was a little girl, children would gather and figure out what they were going to give up, like chocolate, or coca cola, or candy. Mostly, in truth, it didn’t last too long. We meant well, we took it seriously, but we didn’t have the capacity for that kind of long term commitment – 40 days (and 40 nights, too; we don’t get time off from sunset to sunrise.)
As adults, we can be equally wacky, but in different ways. We can give up something that is too easy to give up. We can give up something and then obsess about it until it makes up a major focus of our day. If we are very fortunate, with prayer and God’s help, we can truly give up something meaningful and stick to it, offering it up as a spiritual sacrifice to God.
I had a blessing this week. It didn’t feel like such a blessing at the time, but a great deal of the time this week I was driving, and I had riders in the car.
I had no idea my language in the car had deteriorated so far. I’m a pretty good driver, but this is Kuwait. There are things that are out of my control. And I discovered that occasionally, bad words pop out of my mouth.
I can only guess that it happens when I am alone, too, but I am not conscious of it. All of a sudden, when some bad word pops out of your mouth and you are NOT alone, you become VERY conscious of it.
I’m giving it up for Lent.
At first, I was going to allow myself non obscene words like “Idiot!” “Imbecile!” and “What are you thinking??????” but after lengthy thought, I think it defeats the purpose. No. I am going cold turkey, no obscenities, no outraged exclamations.
Perhaps an elaborate “I forgive you” from time to time. . . . Pray for me!
Stephen King and Hearts in Atlantis
You can be talking with serious people and watch their eyes change when they find you read Stephen King. I refuse to back down. Yep, I read Stephen King. I think he is a brilliant author, some books better than others, but when I am reading, sometimes I can feel my blood move faster through my veins as I wait for a life-threatening situation to resolve itself.
I can trust Stephen King. He taps into who we really are. I can also trust that most of the good guys will still be standing at the end, and most of the bad guys will meet a truly horrible and well-deserved death. I can trust that when bad things happen to good people, other good people will gather round, band together and the gestalt of all that willingness to help one another will prevail against the darkness.
The scariest book I ever read by Stephen King didn’t have any monsters, per se. It didn’t have the Walking Man, or any Wolves of Calla or any great evil, other than the evil that lurks in the human heart. The scariest book I have ever read by Stephen King was Hearts in Atlantis.
Hearts in Atlantis wasn’t even a novel, it was several shorter stories combined in one book. But the title story, Hearts in Atlantis, was about addiction. Not just any old addiction, either, but an addiction I had experienced.
It was my sophomore year in university. I had sailed through the trauma of freshman year with grace, great grades, I felt very confident. That summer, back home, I had taken bridge lessons, and holy smokes – I loved the game. It all made sense to me, and I loved figuring the probabilities and the possibilities, who had what card, how I could finesse that card, how I could WIN. I loved winning.
During the summer after my freshman year, I played a lot of bridge. So it was no wonder, when I got back to school, that I discovered a whole world of bridge players. Early in the morning, before my first class, I would head for the student union and pick up a coffee – and often a game.
The problem was, if I had a particularly good hand, the little devil on my shoulder would whisper “if you skip your class, you can win this hand!” and the bigger problem was – I would listen. I could afford to skip a class here and there, I did the homework. But through the year, I spent more and more time playing bridge and less and less time in the library. At the end of my sophomore year, my grade point average had fallen one full point.
That got my attention. I really wanted academic success. I spent my junior and senior years desperately working to get my grade point average back up to an acceptable level. Once the GPA falls, however, it only inches back up incrementally. It took almost straight A’s to undo the damage I had done to myself the year of bridge playing.
After graduation, I fell back into bridge playing on the duplicate level. But after a while, I noticed that while I travelled from place to place, it was the same smoke-filled room in every new city where we ended up, surrounded by a vampire-like culture that slept a lot of the day and only came alive at night. I also noticed that most of the conversations were about “the one that got away” – how such and such a hand might have been played best. Yawn. Yawn. Yawn. So one day, I just walked away, and never looked back.
Like all addictions, from time to time I hear bridge calling. From time to time I will enter a friendly game – party bridge, but it is no longer irresistable, no longer so seductive, so attractive. Thank God. Reading Stephen King brings back the terror of addiction.
Alison’s Clam Chowder
This is one of the first recipes in my collection. My very best friend from college taught me how to make it and gave me the recipe. You can get all the ingredients in Kuwait, and can buy Kuwaiti clams in the fish markets and at the Sultan Center.
Alison’s Clam Chowder
This is still one of our very favorite soups – especially on a cold winter’s day. Serve with a baguette (French bread, not a diamond!) and a green salad. It’s all you need.
2 strips bacon (beef or turkey bacon in Kuwait)
1 large onion, chopped
2 cans clams and juice (drain the juice, but save it)
2 cups water
4 cups milk
1 large potato
Sautee bacon slowly, so it releases lots of grease. Take out bacon, chop it up, and reserve it.
Sautee onion in bacon grease until soft. Cool, add water and clam juice, and chopped potato. Cook until potato is no longer hard, but not too soft.
Add milk and warm to serving temperature, add canned clams and reserved bacon pieces. Sooooooooo EASY!
A Special Birthday in Germany
Birthdays aren’t my favorite days, and in spite of that, I’ve had some really good ones. The best birthday I can remember, ever, came as a gift of sharing that totally blew me away.
I was living in a small German village. Little by little, I mastered enough German to be able to interact with the villagers, who were very kind to me. They included my husband and I in the village events, including private birthday parties, which in Germany, are a BIG deal.
Birthdays are YOUR day. Every woman in the village brings a cake – or two. Competition to provide the fanciest, most lucious cake is keen. The cakes are not overly sweet, but are incredibly full of fresh cream. And of course, it is rude not to try a little of everyone’s cakes . . . all eyes are all watching.
The two women in the village who took care of me were my landlady and her mother-in-law, who lived in a house just across the courtyard. My landlady sang in the village choir, which performed at a variety of locations throughout the year – festivals, local events, schools – and at 50th birthday parties. The 50th Birthday Party was very special. The whole choir would sing JUST for the birthday girl.
It was a very small village. Everyone knew everyone. Some people didn’t speak because their grandmother didn’t speak to someone else’s grandmother. People carried grudges for a long time. Memories were long, and tongues were longer. My landlady’s protection was very valuable to me, an outsider in the village, who might, from time to time, violate customs without even knowing about it.
My husband and I were leaving Germany, after four years in the village. It was around this time of the year, the cold cold of winter in Germany. One evening my landlady came down and asked us to come to her birthday party the next night – our birthdays are only two days apart, and we had often celebrated together. We were delighted for the invitation, as we knew the choir would be seranading our landlady.
There was a lovely catered sit-down dinner. Everyone was in dress-up clothing, and the wine and beer were flowing. We knew it would be our last dinner in the village, and we felt so honored to be included.
And then the choir arrived. The choir master made a speech to our landlady, congratulating her on her special birthday and giving her a long list of good wishes. And then he turned to us, and said that tonight our landlady was sharing her birthday with me, and they would sing two songs for us on our departure.
This was her special day. Her 50th birthday is the day the whole village would honor her. It only happens once in your lifetime. And she shared it with me.
The choir sang “The Gypsy Wanderers”, and truly, it was appropriate for my husband and I, departing for our next life in Doha. From the first notes, I cried. I’ve never minded my vagabond life, but for that brief moment, I regretted not having the kind of deep roots that kept me anchored in one place. I would never have a village singing for my 50th birthday; I had never earned that honor. And my landlady gave it to me, simply, without fanfare, sharing the honors she had earned day by day, living in the village. She gave it expecting nothing in return for it, sheerly for the joy of sharing.
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