The Thing About Anger

I never knew how angry I was until I became a mother.

That sounds bad.

I remember the first time the anger actually exploded out of my small 5' frame.  I was in my friend's car on our way to school. We were just sitting there, talking, and she began to frustrate me. And something inside of me started bubbling. It bubbled and boiled until it blew.

I shouted and told her to stop. My friend, her little brother and I just sat in the car silent; her poor defenceless little brother in the backseat full of uncomfortable awkwardness. My friend with shocked eyes staring forward towards the road. And me in the passenger seat, still feeling shaky and unsure of how to sit still for the next 5 minutes.

Other than that time, there aren't a lot of moments I remember well where something inside of me burst, but the ability to do so has always been there, buried deep, but still present.

Then I had kids. These beautiful, squishy, fair skinned people who hold my heart in their hands. These littles that I love fiercely.

And sometimes I get angry at them.

I get angry when I've spent the last 10 minutes picking up thrown about toys and dealt with the whining and complaining of my 4 year old because she is still waiting for me to get her that cup of milk. When just as I head to the kitchen to get the milk I hear a crash as my 2 year old son throws his cereal bowl on the ground and the milk has now literally been spilled all over the place.

Everywhere, under every crevice of the couch and coffee table.

And I feel it seep into my bones until I snap.

I shout. I say something you would say to the guy who just cut you off on the freeway. And the anger feels so hot and real that I'm not sure how it got there.

The more I've reflected on my family history, the more I see that this anger, this temper, is and always has been there. It's present on both sides of my family and I seem to have inherited it's strength. It runs through my blood stream and strikes when I am at my most tired, my most thin, my most weak.

And yet, I know there is more to me then just this family history. I know that I am my own person and more than a genetic trait.

But still, it's there, lurking in the background, ready to pounce when I least expect it.

And I'm embarrassed by it. I am ashamed by it.

Parenthood is hard. It's exhausting and it's forever. But we as mothers don't like to talk about the anger we can direct toward our children over spilt milk. We don't like to talk about those moments we "loose it." The times we yell. But they happen, and I've got to believe they happen even to the best of us.

Anger comes too easily so often, frustration rears it's nasty head just as anger comes to the surface. This two man team that leaves it's victims feeling entirely helpless to prevent it.

But thank God that's not the whole story. Thank God there's hope.

This is when that faith in a Saviour rings most true. When this season of Advent penetrates deep into our hearts and our lives and asks us to reveal those dark places, those spots and weaknesses.

A Saviour who came to save us, to rescue us, and to do so with love. A strength so much stronger than anger, than frustration, even then exhaustion.

I am learning that genetics, family history and being tired are not enough to hold on to this anger.

That He is so much stronger than that and He is what creates change through us. Through Him I have the ability to stop yelling at my children. I have the power to catch my temper before it flares up and to grasp grace with both hands. Because grace is what my children need. It is what I so desperately need, and it is what He so freely gives.

So grasp onto grace this season. Hold tight and let it cover you, because with it, you can accomplish a great many things.

Because He makes all things new.