My Dear Hemlock

by Tilly Dillehay

Right seeing is for right living, not for morbid microscopic wallowing in sin.

Woman, as the Enemy intends her, is a fearsome, nasty, morbid thing, all practicalities and gentleness, the so-called “law of kindness” on her tongue, an interior intractability masked by a kind of calm, maddening hopefulness, courage in the face of despair, lockstep obedience to the Enemy’s demands, etc. etc.

Our best marriages occur when a woman is constantly trying the wind’s method, blowing as cold and hard as she can. Husbands universally respond by pulling their coats tighter around them. (In the fable, the sun shines warmly on the man’s face so that he removes the coat voluntarily. It is a dangerous secret, really.) One word of praise would do much more to “improve” him than a hundred critical words ever could. But it would also change her. Giving thanks produces a habit of thankfulness. Gratitude begets more pernicious gratitude.

In this way, you will produce a gorgeous flush of silent disapproval that takes in her entire world. All of the Enemy’s works will evaporate in the stunning silence of an ungrateful disposition, a thanks unspoken. Whether it be a sunny day, a hot shower, a pancake, a new baby, or a husband, the Enemy’s “gifts” will be met with the pursed lips of one who is waiting to see an unbroken vista of perfection—a life that meets entirely with her approval—before she plucks up the one blessing and names it in gratitude.

Eventually any human comes to resent living with another human who doesn’t seem to notice or care for them in even the most elementary ways. Resentment will escalate simple inattention to positive rudeness. Then, when she becomes dissatisfied with the resulting temperature of their home, teach her to cast about for more complicated, more clinical answers. This will be quite easy. When there is trouble, humans always prefer a huge overhaul or a complicated theory to a simple task.

The humans are all Naamans, certain that their problems are too unique and too knotty for a simple swim in the Jordan.

This sort of girl will always attempt to teach something before she has finished learning it, will always try to hold others to a standard that she herself is going to go slack on in about a month, and will be perfectly unaware of her own hypocrisy.

Research is still working on the exact method He uses to unlock the cages around human hearts. But that is what confession does, that much we know.

As long as they never begin the habit of confession, they’ll build this delightful tartar of the soul for years. This is how hatred begins, Hemlock. Don’t underestimate it. Because one clear confession does more than enough heavy lifting for the sixty or so seconds it requires.

Distract, delay, discourage—do whatever you have to do, but don’t allow your girl to set up a habit of confessing small sins. Keep the memory of her wrongdoing just at the periphery. Give her just enough awareness to try to “do better,” to climb out of the situation by forcing herself into a calmer mood, changing the scene, or getting on her phone for distraction. Put a little distance between her and the moment, and you can guide her smoothly into the next temptation, burdened and unarmed.

The purest delicacy on the fat soul of a religious person is that crusty layer of conscience, seared. A conscience like that takes years of watching and nudging as it cooks itself to the perfect shade of black.

But if she ever gets to realize she could live day in and day out with a clear conscience—woe betide you. The shame we enjoy in most human beings would dry up. And then what? Intimacy, almost uninterrupted intimacy with the Enemy. A screen, blocking your access, a barrier against which you may tear your fingernails for the next fifty years.