A Wife Loved Like The Church

I’m not sure when it first dawned on me that I’m an angry person. Fiery, sure. But angry? Me? Never. Angry is something mean people are. Angry is that man who loses it over being served a tomato on his hamburger when he clearly asked for none. Or that woman at the store who is yelling at the top of her lungs at the cowering manager. I am not angry like that.

Do I tend to get heated over certain topics? Of course. But that’s passion.

Does my blood boil when someone crosses the line with me? Yeah. But that’s justice.

Yet for years there has silently been a fire burning inside me. A fire that has lashed out at my adoring husband and sweet children. A fire that has slowly been burning my house to the ground.

One afternoon, in mid-February, the fire took over. I raged, literally, raged with anger, and my girls felt the full effects. While I’ve always been pretty transparent on my blog, I’m keeping the details of that moment private because frankly they are painful and heart crushing – nothing worth retelling.

The after effects of a fire are not pretty. Life is burned. Ashes of what once were are left in heaps on the floor. It is ugly and resembles death.

When I walked away from that moment, I crumbled. I hid from my children for the rest of the day. I couldn’t trust myself. When Jonathan came home, I wept. “I need help. I’m scared of myself, of what I am becoming.” I cried. Through an evening of prayer, repentance and reconciliation, I took my first steps toward putting out the fire.

I finally came to terms with the fact that I have some deep seeded anger issues. How and why they are there are varied, but one thing is certain, they cannot stay. I refuse to allow my children to grow up with an angry mom. In what has been a bold, yet humbling step, I’ve started meeting with a counselor. For the last month, I’ve been taking what seem to be minuscule steps toward recovery. I’ve spent a lot of time identifying my “trigger points” and learning to redirect my thought process and words during heated moments.

I wish I could say thing are rosy and peaceful now. But they aren’t. I still struggle with lashing out. I see the effects of my anger played out before my eyes, especially in Julia when she lashes out in the same manner that I have. Which is heart breaking coming from such a sweet child – and soul wrenching realizing it’s my sin that has done it. My first reaction to most stressful situations is still anger. But, through more grace than I will ever comprehend, I am starting to see moments of healing shine through. Moments that would have made me scream and yell, now make me step back and redirect. Moments where I feel a peace only God gives, because I know all too well that it is not my own. Moments of healing and restoration, of finding joy where there was once sorrow.

Facing your sin is hard. It’s ugly. It’s painful. It gets down right nasty at times. But there is hope. Hope in the promise of Christ. He ransomed us from sin through his death and resurrection, because of his overwhelming love. So, yeah, facing your sin is hard. But through Christ, and what He’s done, we don’t have to face our sins alone.