Over the holidays I put on a new Christmas sweatshirt (don’t ask) and immediately felt a scratching sensation on my neck. Reaching back with my hand, I confirmed that it was the tags that indicate size and care instructions. Neither wanting to take off the sweatshirt or hunt down a pair of scissors, I gave the tags an experimental tug. To my surprise, they came away easily, as if they had been designed to be removed with little fuss. And that got me thinking: what else in my life do I wish I could be rid of with minimal effort? I could rattle off a hundred small annoyances (sloppy handwriting, dwindling strength while exercising in middle age, bad eyesight), but that’s not where my brain was going. I wanted to identify something big, something akin to Atlas’s stone atop his shoulders.
My list definitely got shorter, but each item on it required me to pause and imagine—rather wistfully—what it seemed like I couldn’t have. (At least, what I couldn’t have yet; at most, not ever this side of heaven).
For instance, I have a great sensitivity to sensory input around me: light, sound, temperature, taste. Like the canary in the coal mine, I get overwhelmed easily and need to dampen the stimuli that is coming at me like a barrage of barbs. Problem is, I live with an autistic child, who has for the last 12 years comforted himself by making loud, repetitive noises—either with his toys, his tablet, or his own voice. There’s no getting away from it, and I have come to accept that even though my special needs child is joyous, curious, smart and affectionate, he is also costly to me in a uniquely pinpointed way.
Then there is the catastrophic thinking. Having survived a traumatic childhood, my mind immediately goes to the worst-case scenario whenever something questionable comes up (or even when it doesn’t). A small sneeze could mean the flu, a blue day could indicate clinical depression, an additional pound on the scale could turn into twenty. Or, more seriously, I could fall down the stairs or get into a car wreck. Everything exists on the verge of a crisis, as if the slightest puff of air will send me tumbling down a cliff. These days I struggle especially with worry over my son—him getting caught up in some kind of attack or accident in which he gets hurt because he lacks the situational awareness to protect himself. Never mind that he’s never been to the emergency room for anything, thank the Lord, but that doesn’t stop intrusive thoughts from horrifying me. Thoreau said most people live lives of quiet desperation. I live a life silently slipping into scenes of disaster afflicting those whom I love the most.
I live with a husband who, ironically, is definitely not a catastrophic thinker. I say ironically because, as a doctor, he deals with actual life and death situations and yet is able to sit down to a meal and eat calmly— not like a giraffe sharing a dwindling watering hole with predatory animals. Once, years ago when we were in a movie theater waiting for the film to start, I peered over and saw how relaxed he was in his seat, while I occupied mine in the state of hyper vigilance I usually maintain in public spaces. This is another thing I have come to accept: that I will never have the same starting point he does. His positive childhood hardwired him differently than mine did me.
And that leads me to another boulder on my back: comparison. I do it all the time, most painfully with my son and other people’s children. Now that he has gotten older, the gap yawns wide between his emotional, verbal, and behavioral development, and his that of his peers. While my friends are having whole conversations with their kids, I get a three-word sentence every few months. Don’t get me wrong—I know how hard it is for my son to put those words together, which makes me prouder of him than if he could simply rattle off a whole monologue. But it hurts. And it generates grave concerns over whether he will ever be able to speak like he needs to so that he may better navigate the world.
And let’s not forget that I spend too many moments comparing my middle aged self to just about anyone whom I perceive to have some advantage over me, however small. Perhaps they hold an important job and make a lot of money. Or feel more confident about their finely honed abilities than I would mine (if I felt I had any). Then there’s my totally unhealthy habit of comparing my present self to my younger self, back when I was more athletic and didn’t struggle with the same mental health issues that I do now. It’s humbling to submit yourself to the care of professionals to make sure that you stay steady and strong enough to take care of yourself and your family. As I head further into my middle age years, I fear that it will be an even tougher fight to keep an even keel, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
And here’s the kicker, the massive stone I would give anything to jettison: my anger. I’ve made no secret about my constant battle to overcome my anger at God, which pops up constantly, like a “Whack a Mole.” Any pain I endure, any difficulty I face—it’s all God’s fault—or so says my three-year-old reasoning. He could have protected, shown up, done something to make things better but that’s not how it always turns out.
Jesus wasn’t kidding when He said that we would have trouble in this world (John 16:33). He Himself experienced a lot of it. My life is far calmer and more comfortable that His ever was, so what’s my beef with Him? He has never been dishonest with me, nor has He ditched me when the going got tough. And I know this mainly because of the loving, stalwart people He has put in my life who stay by me through thick and thin, giving of themselves in a way that reflects His heart. Still, I wrestle with anger at God, and I suppose I very well may for the rest of my life.
Let’s suppose for the sake of argument that I could rid myself of this anger instantaneously, even for a week. What would that be like? Has my mind become so entrenched in it that I wouldn’t even recognize who was staring back at me in a mirror? I guess what I am asking is whether my anger gives me something good, whether it functions in some positive way. The only answer I can come up with at this point is: yes, it helps me notice things.
When your hackles are up, when you are peeved with someone, you tend to pay attention to what they are saying and doing as far as you understand it. Even though I am sure most of my conclusions could be wrong about why God is causing or allowing this or that in my life, at least I am engaging Him about it. Or at least I should be. That’s the trick of it.
If you notice something that bothers you and keep it to yourself, you give bitterness rich ground in which to take root. If, however, you keep pulling up your observations and presenting them to God as evidence of some type of unfairness on His part, at least you are facing in His direction and speaking. You may even be given the grace to do some listening as well, so you can hear things from His point of view. I’ve noticed that when this happens, the anger defuses in my heart like air leaking out of a balloon.
One thing keeps surprising as I come to God, tugging away at my anger. He’s not angry back. More than once I’ve been told by people close to me that if they can understand my rage and frustration, how much more must God look upon me with compassion as I contend with these emotions. As I look at the faces, hear the voices, receive the embraces of my loved ones when I feel I least deserve their love, it’s hard to argue with their logic. What they do, God does, only to an infinite degree I cannot imagine.
Even as I strive against my anger, I will give thanks for the way it reveals how loved I am. And I will keep praying that one day the narrative within me will change so that I no longer need to be angry with God to maintain my sense of self, my sense of fairness, before Him. I will try to enter more deeply into the waters of unknowing, where I am surprised again and again by His lack of anger towards me. I will get only kindness, gentleness, and understanding from Him. This I must believe and pursue with greater diligence.
King David wrote a psalm in which he expressed confidence that God doesn’t dish back whatever refuse we bring to Him. Instead, He offers us shelter from our inner storms when they spill over onto Him. Psalm 62:8 says:
Trust in him at all time, O people;
Pour out your heart before him;
God is a refuge for us.
O Lord,
May we come to believe more strongly
That you remain a safe place for us
No matter the state
Of our hearts towards you
Bring us to the place
Where we can relinquish our anger
In favor of faith
And gratitude
This we pray most earnestly
Amen.