Pride

My son is proud when he works hard on a picture and gives it to me. He says, “I made it for you.” His eyes shine, he smiles broad, and he gets the tape. That’s not the pride I’m talking about.

Here’s the one . . .

“Oh pride, hey how you been? Anything new since we hung out last night and talked about what’s wrong with that co-worker? So glad you came over for coffee and to read my writing. I know. It’s good, right? I think I finally nailed the opening paragraph!”

Yeah, yuck. Like many insecure people that need the love and guidance of the Lord, I waffle between being an egomaniac who thinks everything she does is significant and a pathetic lump who believes she is a worthless speck of dust on a grain of sand.

Thomas Aquinas defined pride as “inordinate self love.” I would add, for the narcissist self loather, an “inordinate self obsession.” Because no matter which side I’m swinging towards in regards to ego, it’s all about me and therein lies the problem.

The waffling is a wandering. I often need a shepherd or at least a border collie nipping me back into the collective project of grazing. I am part of a flock, and I may be useful for something in particular, but I simply do not have the perspective, as a sheep, to know what’s to become of me or my coat or my meat. I can do/go/bah however I see fit, but I only know my field and even at that I’m, what, 3 feet tall? Do I really think I can see the whole world and my place within it from the highest point on my grazing slope? Absurd. That’s the sinful kind of pride.

Feel free to nip my ankle in the comments section below.