Because some days, I just want to yell

Scrambling to clean up from the day, picking up, wiping, prepping the lentils & rice for when hungry, wet & tired bodies scraggle into my kitchen after a day of swim team & sun & work & school, I am stopped by 9 year old boy, introvert, standing in my path tears pouring out with every other word.

Big brother and friend duo were being too rough & macho boys on the trampoline.  I walk outside (well...I stomp actually) and see no boys but rather just the girls on trampoline.  So I bark out his name and he and friend come from the side of the house.  He red faced and a bit emotional and friend already saying, "He didn't do it, really!"

And why in these moments does it all rush back from my childhood?  Me 9 and my older sister hurting me in some shape or form, nails, feet or words that lodged deep and loud but quiet, peacemaker me had no tools to fight back, to solve the problem so I retreated, slunk back, gave up time and again.  And now, even as a grown woman, I feel the hurt and wish I could go back and stand up for myself.

So of course I am partial to 9 year old over 12.  And I am ready to dish out punishment large after I hear both sides when I suddenly ask a question and get a major curve ball, dagger to my heart.  "What were you doing behind the side of the house?"  And his answer clear and honest diffuses me and leaves me undone, raw and forced to look at the speck in my own eye.  "I was scared you'd yell at us."

And just like that, I gulped hard, bit my lip and whispered deep in my heart, "Help me Jesus not to harm but to help, to bind up and not to break."  I am guilty of yelling.  I was about to be guilty of embarrassing him in front of friend and all, for goodness knows he deserved it.  

Yet, how do you reel it all back in and not let it fly in the heat of the moment?  How am I to be the adult here when I feel like the 8 year old girl again, broken and bruised and finally ready to stand up and pull back the bow.  I don't have the answers.  All I know is words can scar and words can wound and lodge deep and fester when left unchecked.  I've been on both the receiving and the giving end unfortunately.  

As I grow up unto all the fullness of Christ, mature into 5th grade from 4th in my conflict resolution skills I am learning that usually when I feel deep anger, rage even, that it usually isn't about the issue at hand.  The issue, the squabble to referee, the broken glass, the spilt milk is just the trigger to push up some undealt with something that if I can be brave enough and face, grieve, yell at that sister face in my pillow that I can spare a lot of pain in my present hall of memories.  

My counselor back in Wenatchee, WA used to say the world would be a sweeter place if we'd stop throwing up on the sidewalk -ie. to each other- and learn to throw up in the toilet large and loud and then flush (i.e.-palms open, give it to Jesus, trust he's big enough to handle it).  And in those days she taught me to put my kids in front of Veggie Tales safe and walk back into the bathroom and speak out the deep hurt, yell even, grunt, pound the sink, kick the door, cuss even and then flush.

And there at 3327 School Street, the parsonage house we rented with orange carpet and white picket fence I learned that I was angry about some things and that being honest with my anger could lead to great hope and healing.  It hasn't been an easy road but I've learned that throwing up to the ones I love doesn't produce what I desire.