She Yelled At Us

My mother is one of the most even-tempered people that I know. She is a peacemaker and has a gentle spirit, and love just drips from her like honey. As we were growing up, I rarely remember her raising her voice at us, unless she was calling us in to dinner from the farm across the street or to warn us of impending bodily injury from whatever stunt we were trying to pull. I do recall, however, a certain sound of frustration she would make (kind of a punctuated "grr!") if we tried to reason our way into trouble, but most often that was followed by laughter or at least a smile. I remember her speaking in a serious, stern voice, and my brother asking her to stop 'yelling.' She would softly and slowly reply, "I'm NOT yelling." Even in those times my memory still pictures her as calm, collected, patient, loving, gentle, controlled, with her head and heart in the right place as she loved and cared for us.

Because of this, my brother has long teased our mom that he's going to have "She Yelled At Us" written on her tombstone. We all know there's no truth in that. The irony makes us laugh.

Recently, though, I've been wondering if this quality somehow swam away from me in the gene pool. For as much as I find myself to be so similar to my mom in so many ways, I've been seeing a side of myself that is more hot-headed, quick-tempered, and loud.

Just this morning as I began my day, I was praying for God to help me when I am frustrated to stop, breathe, and think before speaking to my daughter in the kind of tone that I wouldn't want to have directed at me. And if you are a praying person, you understand that when we ask God for something (like patience or restraint), he gives us opportunities (to be patient or to restrain ourselves).

By 10 a.m. I feel like I had blown several opportunities already. I hadn't stopped. I hadn't taken any deep breaths. I hadn't thought. I simply let words spill from my mouth as they ran across my tongue. And why? Because I didn't want to have little wet footprints across my newly mopped kitchen floor. Because I didn't want a pillow fort where my nicely made bed had just been. Because I was on my own agenda and wanted her to understand that Mommy was doing something that I considered important. So instead of interrupting my busyness to take a moment to explain on her level, or to realize that housework is so much less important than my relationship with my children, I just let the words fly however they may at the risk of wounding my own flesh and blood.

I am a work in progress. God is not done with me. I do ask Him for help, but I can't expect Him to do it all for me -- He still gives me choices and opportunities. As I thought back to the silly epitaph that my brother claimed he will use for my mom, I sincerely hope my children will remember me the way I remember my mom when we were growing up. She didn't yell at us. She lived out the fruits of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22-23) and was a beautiful example of them to us.

The day is not over. God will give me more opportunities to show His power in my life. Stop. Breathe. Think.