Writing People Off

Sometimes I write people off.

One thing tips the scales and that's IT, I'm DONE. No more. Deal BREAKER.

This seldom happens with people I actually know. I know humans are nuanced, complicated, and full of contradictions. Much as I'd like people to be all good or all bad, I know they're not. For instance, my mom was funny, creative, brave, and generous, but the truth is she passed on some unhealthy and sinful patterns that I'm still trying to overcome. I recognize her humanity and the complicated factors in her life. I wouldn't think of writing her off. She was a treasure.

However.

When it comes to authors and such, I try to be tolerant and then one thing tips the scales and ka-whishk, [sound of sword slicing the air] that's IT.

Many Christian women have read Debbie Pearl's book, Created to Be His Helpmeet, which seems to be the book of choice that well-meaning and cruel people give to women in struggling marriages. 

I had heard of it, so I decided to read it. 

And I got to the garbage episode.

As I recall, Mr. Pearl, whom Mrs. Pearl holds up as a hunky, wise, amazing man of God, is taking out a bag of garbage. Mrs. Pearl is watching from an upstairs window as he winds up in very macho fashion and pitches that bag of garbage...on the edge of the dumpster, where it spills all over.

Mr. Pearl looks miffed and walks off, leaving the mess.

Mrs. Pearl laughs and laughs at her funny husband, then goes downstairs and happily picks up all the spilled garbage.

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

As my hunky, wise, amazing man of God husband said, "What in the world? You wouldn't even tolerate that behavior in a 15-year-old."

So I wrote off Debbie Pearl right there, although my sister says, and I grudgingly have to agree, that her description later on of the three types of husbands is spot-on.

[Later: full disclosure: I recalled today (Thank you, Holy Spirit) that one time years ago I gave a copy of Created to be His Helpmeet to a woman because I thought she deserved a dose of Debbie Pearl. I regret this. It was cruel.]

We had to read lots of Larry Crabb's books for the counseling course we took. I am trying to think of a diplomatic way to write that I hated his writing style. Even so, I plowed on, making up hashtags to describe his message--#yourenotactuallyhappy #orniceeither #youhavewrongmotives #13layersdown.

But then on about page 65 of I think it was Bold Love we read how he got frustrated with the little plastic band holding a packet of new socks together--and we have all endured this little frustration if we are lucky enough to have new socks--but he interpreted it as proof that deep inside, he hated God.

DONE. That's IT. I can't even hear anything else you say. Who has time to think like this?

"Bear with me here," he pleaded. "Keep reading."

Nope. I'm done. I kept reading only for the assignment's sake, but he had left me far behind.

[Oops. I just went to verify my sources here and realized it's NOT a Larry Crabb book after all. The author is Dan Allender, with some help from Tremper Longman. Well, Larry and Dan are definitely cut from the same cloth in terms of writing style and making life awfully complicated, so I had a similar reaction to both.]

Then there was the preacher from Pennsylvania who came to our church. How this subject came up in a revival meeting sermon I'll never know, but he insisted that women's ski suits were immodest.

All my interest in his talk screeched to a halt right there. Ski suits? Those bulky inch-thick full-coverage garments worn over layers of other garments?

After the service, my intrepid daughter asked him to clarify. Had he really said that? Did he really mean it?

Yes and yes. He said disrespectfully, like how dare she ask?

I wrote him off then and there, and also determined that no daughter of mine would come within ten yards of him, ever again. CA.REE.PY. 

I also wrote off Stan Dale. I feel bad about this, because my husband admires the man and has often had his students read his biography.

Stan Dale was a flamboyant missionary to a tribe in the mountains of Irian Jaya. However, he wasn't the first missionary there. He and his family were preceded by a Dutch family. The Dutchman had tried to make their house warmer in the damp mountainous chill by cutting vents above the doorways between the rooms so the warm air could circulate better.

Well. Stan Dale was all about being a tough soldier for Jesus, so when he and his wife and little children moved into the house the Dutch family vacated, he plugged up the vent holes, lest they all get too comfortable.

He lost me right there.

I know he did amazing things for the Gospel, was courageous and committed, and ended up being martyred, and as a result many of the tribe came to faith.

But I am stuck on those vent holes and his miserable little children and his poor patient wife, stuck in the wilds of Irian Jaya in a cold house with such a husband and no way to escape.

I am quite sure he could have been just as heroic if he had been considerate of his family.

I know the risk of sharing all this, because I also write and speak. Do I want people to trip over one thing and immediately write off me and everything I have to say?

Actually, I happen to know that that's already happened, judging from a few letters I've gotten. I think Paul taking me to a college football game was a dealbreaker for some readers who don't believe in attending sporting events.

I see a big difference between readers and real people. I expect my family to give and receive grace as we all work life out together. We know each other's faults but we are stuck, so we're going to love and enjoy each other despite our differences.

But readers have the privilege of writing me off. I think that's part of the package, and writers have to acknowledge that. I stand by my use of the word "kids" for "children," posting a "lie" on April Fools Day one year, Paul taking me to a game, and joining Facebook.

But if those were dealbreakers for you, and you can't hear anything else I say, that's your right and privilege. Although if that's the case, I guess you won't be reading this.