Unpacking the Secret Sin of My Scornful Suitcase
Unpacking the Secret Sin of My Scornful Suitcase
I’m currently taking a rather in-depth course that requires actual studying, weekend availability, and a few too many evenings in the classroom. And let me tell you, the evening classes are rough. Everyone’s tired, everyone’s hungry, and we’re all counting down the minutes to dinner.
And then there’s that one person in class. You know the one, endless questions, every detail needing clarification. The questions aren’t bad (in fact, I’ve learned a lot because of them), but when you’re sitting under fluorescent lights at 8:30 p.m., even a good question feels like an act of war. Every time their hand goes up, there’s this collective sigh, a few groans, a subtle eye roll.
And, if I’m honest, I’ve joined in on the scorn a few times myself.
“You can only be jealous of someone who has something you think you ought to have.”
— Margaret Atwood
It wasn’t about questions this time, though. It was about a woman I knew years ago—a woman who seemed to have the life. She was born into the uppermost layer of the middle class and went straight from her father’s house to her husband’s, without ever having to work a day in between. She zipped around town in a shiny little BMW convertible with personalized plates and a smug bumper sticker.
When I met her, she was knee-deep in planning her daughter’s extravagant wedding and lamenting her osteoarthritis. And, Henry, no one suffered as much as she did. Just ask her.
Meanwhile, I was barely past “The Accident” and all the messy aftermath of rebuilding. Her problems felt so… petty. And I, in all my supposed wisdom, rolled my eyes and thought, You wouldn’t last five minutes in my shoes.
But there in the quiet of Eucharistic Adoration, I realized the truth. My disdain for her wasn’t about her. It was envy.
I was jealous of her life of ease—the opportunities, the comfort, the safety. I resented that she never had to wrestle with hardship or scrape for peace. It wasn’t her attitude that stung me. It was my own longing for what I thought I’d been denied.
And that realization hit me hard: the tenth commandment is heartbreakingly easy to break.
The worst part? I didn’t even want her life. Her social obligations and demanding family would have driven me mad within a week. However, I was convinced that, given the same opportunities, I could have done a better job of making the most of them.
And who am I to say that? How can any of us claim we’d manage another person’s blessings better than they have?
“The tip of the neighbor’s iceberg often looks very nice.”
— Roy A. Ngansop
It’s funny—my life, compared to much of the world, is extraordinary. My house is safe and clean. My fridge is full. My bed is soft, and my tap water is drinkable. I can go to church freely and drink Diet Pepsi whenever I please. I have access to doctors, education, and the luxury of writing to you about my spiritual hang-ups on a quiet morning.
And still, envy sneaks in.
We always think we see the whole story—but we don’t. Everyone’s iceberg is floating on unseen struggles.
“Our envy always lasts longer than the happiness of those we envy.”
— François Duc de La Rochefoucauld
In Adoration, as I was journaling, it dawned on me that my scorn wasn’t really about her at all. It was about the story I tell myself about who I should have been.*
It seems the trick to overcoming scorn is to stop worshiping the version of myself that never existed and live gratefully with the one God shaped through grace.
And when I think of it that way, my suitcase feels a lot lighter.
xoxo,
a.d. elliott
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a.d. elliott is a wanderer, photographer, and storyteller living in Salem, Virginia.
In addition to her travel writings at www.takethebackroads.com, you can also read her book reviews at www.riteoffancy.com and US military biographies at www.everydaypatriot.com
Her online photography gallery can be found at shop.takethebackroads.com
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