Thursday, January 14, 2016

Haters Gonna Hate


I've been so angry lately that I feared anything I wrote in my foggy cloud of fury would be vindictive or punitive or riddled with bias and prejudice and quite simply, Not Nice Things. 

(And since my Momma raised me right, if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.)

But finally, slowly, quietly the sun rose again in my small life. The rain burned off of the smoking blacktop, and my spirit was peaceful again, allowing me some clarity of thought and kindness of spirit. 

Because (and here it comes) if you jack around with my kids, I hate your guts. 

That's right. I said it. And I meant it. 

I. HATE. Your. Guts.

And that tiny, evil sentence requires me to breathe and pray and meditate on Scripture and repent and find my center again before I do something that can't be retracted or repaired. 

If you are being brutally honest with yourself, sometimes you feel this same way. You hate the coach, you hate the teacher, you hate that mean girl, you hate the boyfriend/girlfriend, you hate other parents...the key to getting over this is to remember this awful truth: 

The World Does Not Revolve Around Me or My Children.

Gak.  There it is. Painful, isn't it? Still truth. Because that person I hate probably isn't whistling Dixie about me either. They probably wish me ill daily. It's a disgusting thought, because it means I might have to change. And forgive. And move forward even when I've been wronged (or just perceived I have been wronged). 

Gee, thanks, God. (I hate that part.) Because I like wallowing in my anger and stewing in my righteous indignation. It's pickling me as I type. I'm fueled by that fury, channeling it into other areas of my life. Riding it around until it's dead. Kicking it for good measure just to make sure I can't mount up again. 

While I'm at it, how about this gem:
I Am Not Always Going to Be Treated Fairly. Neither Are My Kids.

Man, that stinks. I hate that one too. This Christ-centered life is becoming painful. It's hitting me too hard where I live. It's too much, God. It's not possible for me to forgive those who have wronged me and get over my petty complaints.

But You did; therefore, I can. And will. 

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