On Lying

Samuel:

Yesterday, you asked me a really important question. You said, "Mom, I should always tell the truth, right?"

And I knew you were about to give me skinny on the truth campaign at your school. First, they taught you about manners, then about bullying, and now they were tackling honesty. Which is a lovely pursuit. I'm glad you're hearing these messages at school. And I wanted to talk to you about tact and subtlety and opinion. I even thought about delving into the whole "what is truth?" existential conversation, but you're six, so I spared you (or more likely, myself) the confusion.

Instead, I did what Jesus did (a rarity for me). I told a story. And it sounded a bit like this:

Once upon a time, there was a boy and he loved his mother very much (transparent, much?). His mother was very pregnant with an adorable little sister just waiting to meet her smart big brother.

Now, this very smart little boy had a very smart daddy, who also loved the boy's mother and little sister so much. The sweet family made plans to go to a really lovely party.

Now, the father and little boy were dressed in the very nicest party clothes and they were waiting for the mother to come out of the room, ready to go.

Only the mother wasn't coming out. So the father went into the bedroom and asked the mother what was taking so long. The mother was crying. Her belly was so big and her clothes were all so small, the only party dress the mother had looked more like a circus tent. So the mother asked what all expectant mothers eventually ask.  She stared her teary eyes in the mirror past her huge belly and asked the father, "Do I look fat in this?"

I didn't finish this obviously true story. Instead, Sam, I asked you, "What should the father say?"

"I don't think he should call the mom fat." You're a smart boy.

"Well, isn't she fat, though?" I questioned.
"Yeah, but she has a baby." You responded.
"So do you think the father lied?" I pushed a bit further.
"Yeah, probably."
"And is lying wrong?" I was really pressing you at this point.

You sighed and looked sideways at me.
Then you said something I can't forget.

"If the father thinks she is fat, he should say so. But the father doesn't think she is fat, he thinks she is carrying a big baby in her belly. And maybe the baby is fat."


We laughed and didn't talk about it anymore.

In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer Tom tells what the Judge calls a Noble Lie. He saves his love from a lashing from the teacher at school and takes the lashing himself. It's the best part of this book, I think. By the way, if you're an adult and you're reading this and you HAVE NOT read this book, shame on us both. Stop what you're doing and read it. Right now. Go.

But back to my point: I like this. I like the idea of telling a lie so magnanimous and brave it brings out the best in everyone who hears it. A noble lie tells all children they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. A noble lie tells a loved one everything will be alright, even in the face of death. A noble lie tells the pregnant mother she does not look fat - she's never looked better.

Here's the thing - some lies are really just lies at the time. They will be true. The children who grow up nurtured and in healthy environments and choose professions that actualize them - fuel their strengths and creativity, they can be anything they eventually want to be (which is usually something totally within their set of skills). When a loved one dies, things aren't ever the same and they are really terrible for a while, but life has a way of making everything alright, even when all seems lost. And pregnant is beautiful. It is radiant. And, yes, it is fat. But the kind of fat that makes a human being. And that kind of fat is just the best kind.

A lie to protect your own ego, a lie to endanger or threaten someone else (or their virtue), or a lie lending strength to a greater evil - those are the kind you shouldn't tell. Not just because they hurt others but because they steal small parts of yourself. The parts that are hard to get back - your sense of integrity, your moral compass, your ability to see beyond your own needs. And those kinds of lies lean into larger, more destructive kinds - they grow a monstrous life of deception and isolation.

I wanted to tell you all this then and I hope I do tell you all of this as you grow - through my words, through my actions, even through my failures. And I'm telling you now, because this, my dear, is the truth.