Yes, when I look around me, I see a universe full of lies. Everything is going to the dogs. The whole world is full of falsehood and there just isn’t a soul I can trust any more. I’m not going to put up with it any longer, I tell you.
Hey, but why are you looking at me so strangely? What…who’s a hypocrite? Me, I’m always right. Always.
This morning, when you and I arrived at that parking spot together (well, not quite together), I was prepared to put my head on a block that I got there a second before you did. And what about that expensive textbook you were kind enough to lend me last month? I’m absolutely certain, absolutely, about that tiny tear (you need a microscope to see it anyway) that you seemed a bit upset about when I brought the book back - right on time, of course. Not the slightest doubt it was there before I touched the book.
And talking of defects and returning things, are you calling me a liar when I insist that the new dress I bought for my little daughter had a stain on it? You surely don’t expect us to ruin our eyes by examining goods so closely while we’re still in the store? And since I had to return it anyway, surely there’s nothing wrong in demanding another color and a smaller size?
Further, when I complained about some incorrect deductions on my latest pay slip, would anyone have been bold enough to claim I might be in error? Surely not. We all know that corporate bookkeepers are the one’s who make mistakes, not the poor rank and file workers who receive the miserable checks they hand out. Well, certainly not where I’m concerned. I don’t make mistakes. I’m always right.
OK, so what’s the special remedy that’s going to cut me down to size?
Now, if only I would be honest with myself for once (and I do claim to be the epitome of honesty, don’t I?), I would perhaps realize that this way of mine, of never conceding that I might be wrong, is not without consequences. Maybe, just maybe, it might dawn on me that if my stubbornness isn’t making me outright enemies, it’s not making me friends either.
And assuming I’d be brave enough to take things one step further and indulge myself in some really serious introspection - perhaps I would come to a surprising conclusion: it’s not so much that I’m afraid to be wrong as a fear of admitting that others can be right!
What’s the cure. Perhaps reading this little story, and taking its lesson to heart, will be the tonic that I and other people like me need:
Anne was somewhat was somewhat disappointed (just like the guy whose book I had borrowed) when a friend who had just hosted a big dinner party brought back the stainless steel soup tureen Anne had lent her for the occasion. “I’m so sorry,” said her friend, “it dropped in the sink and there’s a small scratch on the underside. How can I compensate you?”
“Don’t fret!” was Anne’s response. “it’s really nothing, I’m not concerned about it. As long as the dinner went off well.” But as soon as her friend left, the thought began to nag her: “How could she be so careless? Surely she should have taken better precautions with somebody else’s property?”
For quite some time, this thought was playing on Anne’s mind. She silently repeated those words over and over again as she went about her housework. Each time, she felt as if her blood pressure was rising a tad more. Then suddenly, she stopped in her tracks and her face went pale. Distant memories of a far away time and place had begun to flood her mind…
Many years previously, Anne and her family were renting an apartment owned by friends. One day she happened to be standing at the door, discussing with a neighbor how that could help another neighbor who had fallen on hard times.
While they were busy talking, Anne suddenly remembered she had left an earthenware pot containing not too much water on the stove. She rushed to the kitchen, turned off the fire, and removed the pot. Afraid that the pot might explode any moment, she panicked and put it down somewhere she normally would never dream of placing a hot utensil…on the beautiful formica counter top.
After mustering up all the courage she could, Anne dialed her friends, the owners of the apartment. While waiting for their answer, she quickly prepared a little speech in her defense - to explain why she of all people, normally so meticulous and careful, had been the cause of a large gaping hole in the formica. Fortunately, she didn’t even have to deliver it, because her friends were understanding and generous enough to laugh the whole incident off.
Needless to add, now, so many years later, Anne was able to see the little scratch on the soup tureen in a very different light. What would I have done, she thought, had I been in the apartment owner’s shoes on that fateful day? No doubt, I would have had a heart attack! And now…Never again will I judge others until I’m in their place.
Now that may sound like a tall order, because it’s never possible to stand precisely in the identical place once occupied by your friend.
But nevertheless, the principle is an excellent one. What a different place the world would be if, whenever we feel a little offended by something our friends and acquaintances did or said, we tried a little harder to place ourselves in their shoes.
And if we tried a little harder to imagine how we would react in similar circumstances.
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