Judging Others Is Making You Unhappy

My wife Nita and I were finally buckled into our seats on a plane en route to the beach for a week of quiet and rest.

It had been a long year, full of changes.

Among those changes—we’d packed up our house, renovated it for a sale, bought a new house in a new town, and sent our son off to college. To say it was an exhausting year would be an understatement, and this long planned trip was just the break we needed.

Sitting next to me on the plane was Tom from Louisville.

The father of three young kids, he worked the night shift at the Ford plant. He described how it worked, putting his kids to bed before he left for his shift, and greeting them when they got home from school.

I could tell he was a good dad, as he proudly showed me photos of them on his phone.

When I asked him why he was coming to the beach, he said his wife sent him off for a few days to attend the annual Bike Week celebration. It took about 4 seconds for me to realize that he was not talking about Schwinns. He was talking about Harleys.

And thousands upon thousands of them were arriving at the beach when we were.

If this had been a movie, the camera would have zoomed in on my face.

You’d see this expression that was a blend of terror, fear, regret, anger, and anxiety—all at once. And along with that, the question “Why me, God?” which was repeated often that first day.

The noise level on the street outside of our condo could have shattered my glasses. I’m not sure why these folks feel the need to rev those engines so much, but they do. (Freud would have a time with that!) There was a constant loud rumbling sound.

For the first few days, I was not doing well.

I’d say things to Nita like “What’s next—the Chainsaw Art Demonstration Convention? Or maybe the Firecracker Testers Institute?”

As I said, I was NOT doing well.

By the second day, I was an angry, judgmental curmudgeon.

My inner and exterior dialog was “These people are rude. They have no regard for others, based on the noise level of their mufflers and open air radios blaring “Wild Thing” for all the world to hear.

They are obsessed with skulls, inappropriate sexual bumper stickers, and all things shiny.” And I went on, “These are just big kids with big toys. Don’t they have anything better to do like read Wendell Berry or something?”

And then, when walking through the parking lot full of vendors, I saw one of the guys who looked like a Hell’s Angel praying for another guy who was crying, his arms on his shoulder and head bowed.

Later, when I got back to the condo, three heavily tattooed guys and their wives/girlfriends got on the elevator with me and they were as nice as they could be. Then, I thought of Tom from Louisville on the plane, the kind father of three who had probably ridden past me during the week.

I hate it when this happens.

Just when I get settled into my anger and judgment, Jesus invites the object of my distain to dinner.

He asks me sit at the table with them and eat. And there, I almost always find a call to confront my inner Pharisee, to set aside my arrogance and embrace the humanity of another. I find that being a judge and jury is not only unnecessary, but it also makes you unhappy.

The rest of the week was noisy, but better. I wore earplugs when I needed them, enjoyed my ocean view, and read Wendell Berry.

And while I can and will work on my attitude and judgment, the next time I plan a beach vacation, I’m going to be looking for International Mime Week, the gathering of thousands of people who won’t make a sound.

That’s more my style.