This is #20 in a series of essays on aging.

David should have died in peace. (I mean David of the Old Testament, who killed Goliath.) Despite a danger-filled warrior’s life, fighting to defend his throne from all rivals including his own son, he had retired from active service with his loyal son Solomon safely on the throne. His beloved nation of Israel was more secure than it had ever been, with no active schism and no enemy attacking its borders. Surely he should have died with one of his own psalms on his lips: “The Lord is my shepherd; I lack nothing.” (Psalm 23:1)

The reality was anything but that. David, too weak to get out of bed, called for his son Solomon and gave final instructions that might have come from a Mafia godfather. Joab, the fighting general who led my army? I want you to murder him. Shimei, the man I swore I would never hurt? That was my oath, not yours. “Bring his gray head down to the grave in blood.” (1 Kings 2:1-10)

Those are David’s last recorded words. Despite all God had given him, his soul was filled with bitterness and he had revenge on his heart.

It’s a terrible way to end your life, but I don’t think it’s terribly unusual. Bitterness can expand like a balloon until it fills all the space in your soul. Many people harbor bitterness until the end.

Frankly, I can’t imagine calling one of my children to my bedside with instructions for murder. My bitterness—most people’s bitterness—is tamer. Yet it remains toxic. If encouraged, it will poison my life.

Bitter about work. Those who invest deeply in their careers can become angry at how it ended. They got laid off. They got shunted aside from some big project. Somebody else got promoted. They never got admiration or appreciation for what they did. Nobody celebrated their retirement, or if they did, it wasn’t done with proper respect. Thirty years after their last day on the job, they can tell you how they were unappreciated. Bitterness lies just under the surface.

Bitter about what someone said. People say stupid things. Bitter people remember. They insist that they remember it accurately, and if someone tries to offer mitigating context, they have thought about it enough to argue forcefully that the offense was intentional. The words can be recited from memory years after the fact.

Bitter about lost opportunities. When you look back on a long life, it’s very easy to see the forks in the road where you perhaps took the wrong turn. At the least, you can imagine how life might have been different with another career, a lovelier partner, in a different location, with a different set of friends. Perhaps this is your fantasy world, but the root of bitterness can grow in such fertile soil.

Bitter about family ranking. Sibling rivalry is as old as Cain and Abel. Dig beneath the surface and those bitter memories float to the surface, unresolved, even without the perspective that time should give them. The longing to be the best, the most loved, the prettiest, the admired and respected, the one Mom cares for the most: this still drives people. To be the lesser brother is a bitter pill, and some people choke on it still when they are ninety and their rivals are in the grave. It makes no sense outside the family, but it can be a chorus in the head drowning out other sounds once it begins to sing.

The same rivalries can exist between cousins. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. Perhaps they love too much. As children they got in a tight clinch, and they have never been able to let it go.

Bitter about America. Those who fiercely love their country are often disappointed by it—and how could it be otherwise? A country is an amalgam of many people, with many traits good and bad. Idealism about the country you love can turn bitter, like any unrequited love. Listen to older people talk about America and you’re sure to hear at least a bit of this: disgust with the younger generation, with the government, with the regulatory environment, with traffic, with entertainment. (Terrible music, appalling shows.)

Bitter about God. At some point it comes down to this. The propensity for bitterness is really aimed at God. Some may shy away from saying it, but what other options are there? If bitterness fills your heart, then the Maker of All Things must be responsible. He has let us down.

Most people aren’t bitter. But maybe more are bitter than we commonly think. Some act like life is rosy but start complaining when you pierce the surface patter. Mostly they are older people. They have little future to look forward to, so they focus on the past. Very easily, memories curdle. Bitterness grows.

Maybe everybody has regrets, but why do regrets dominate certain lives? The answer is surely that a lifelong pattern leads to it: focusing on self, letting yourself wallow in self-pity without counterbalancing it with thankfulness. It may be generational. If you heard your parents complaining, you will likely do the same.

It’s possible to break this cycle, but it’s not easy. I doubt anyone can do it alone. Far better to catch the root of bitterness before it grows.