8/17/11 8/17/11

Anger Management

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As you’ll come to realize, this blog is a space of reminding myself of the lessons God’s teaching me and the ways he reveals his love to me. It’s a place of sharing with myself, as much as any of you. Which is why you’ll see me come back to the same topics over and over again: because I need to learn and relearn the same lessons over and over again.

Today I’m coming back to the topic of anger.

I used to be really angry on behalf of others. I found it was much easier to be angry on behalf of other—or at least to justify it. But, as I said in a previous post, I used it as an excuse to stay stuck and to lash out. It did me no good. What I eventually began to realize as my anger boiled and nothing was getting done to make the world a better place was that it was poison. Growing up as a Christian I was well aware of the perils of harboring unforgiveness. I wasn’t aware that harboring unforgiveness on behalf of others was just as toxic.

When something's been done against you, you better understand the anger as poison. You better understand it as another way that your dignity is being robbed. It doesn't make you more human to shut down in anger; it makes you less. Like you're complicit in the murder of a part of yourself. You join the living dead.

I thought my anger on behalf of the poor and marginalized made me more alive. Instead it disconnected me.

But I’ve been realizing more and more that if it weren’t for that anger, I wouldn’t be where I am today. As much as anger can be a paralyzer, it can also be a motivator.

Maybe there's a place for anger after all. But it's not a place we should camp out at for too long. There's danger in never leaving. We are creatures of habit.

Anger is not just something to be managed. It proves we're human. Proves we're human enough to get upset at something that should truly be upsetting. It wouldn’t hurt this bad if it didn’t matter.

A real epiphany came for me when I realized that God was just as angry about the suffering of his people as I was. That he was broken hearted with me. And he wanted me to do something about it.

If I was listening, to someone engulfed in righteous indignation, in shut down-shut out anger and depression, my advice wouldn't be to get out of it, my advice would be to FEEL IT. Be in it. Don't check out. Don't let go of these thoughts or this anger. But let it stir you. Let it move you.

Even though I’ve learned this lesson a thousand times, (okay, been reminded of it a thousand times, acted on it probably twice) I’m still tempted to package anger up into a nice little box in my closet of negative emotions. It’s hard to be angry. It’s hard to see past the anger to the life-giving result of that anger. It takes courage to move beyond the anger. It takes courage to actually do something.

And that’s where I’m stuck today. Between letting the anger consume me and using the anger to motivate me to do something positive. So I’m going to try to take my own advice:

Aly,

Feel it.

Be in it.

Don’t check out.

Don’t let go of these thoughts or this anger.

Let it stir you.

Let it move you.

And, God, please give me the courage to do so.

8/16/11 8/16/11

T.S. Tuesday

This week's T.S. Tuesday excerpt comes from one of my favorite Eliot poems, "East Coker."

"Do not let me hear

Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,

Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of

possession,

Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire

Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless."

When I first read these lines, I got stuck on the folly. I was angry about the poverty and injustice I saw in the world that was driven by the fear and follies and frenzies of old men. I was angry with old men.

I was also angry with myself, and the folly and frenzy I was clinging to so desperately. At the time I was battling a deep fear of belonging. In a world so hungry for attention and approval, it seems weird to think about not wanting to belong. But I didn’t. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be alone. I wanted space.

I didn’t want the responsibility that comes with belonging. I wanted to pretend my actions didn’t affect any one else. That I could do whatever I wanted and it wouldn’t matter.

I didn’t even want to be loved. Being loved required too much responsibility.

It turns out I didn’t need space; I needed Love.

And luckily Love didn’t give me much space.

Years later, I have been and continue to be transformed by this Love.

Today as I read these lines, I’m drawn to the focus on humility. The humility that shows me that not just old men, but also angry teenage girls and less angry twentysomething grant writers can be driven by fear of fear and frenzy and possession. A humility that shows me that we are connected, and that if I insist we treat our coffee and banana and skinny jeans producers with respect and dignity, that I should exercise that same diligence and compassion with my friends and coworkers and mother and, even, the old men who originally sparked my anger.

A humility that reminds me I do belong to another, and to others, and to God.

This humility tells me that even if we were never asked, we carry each other’s hearts. And it is our responsibility to hold on to them tight.

8/15/11 8/15/11

No More Outsourcing

For a journalism major, I’m really bad at asking questions. Heck, for a person in relationship with others, I’m really bad at asking questions. I love learning things. I love finding things out. But it’s more of an undercover operation than anything else. I sleuth. I investigate. I Google. And I’m pretty good at it. But for as much as I discover on my own, it’s laughable how much time I’ll spend sleuthing around instead of going directly to the source.

I do this with people and I do this with God. I’m scared to look like I don’t know the answer. I’m scared to ask and I’m scared to listen.

Right now in my relationship with God, I'm scared to listen. Scared that things might have to change. Scared to put my trust and identity fully in God. I'm scared that God might not say what I want him to say. The past few years have been sprinkled with fits of unwarranted compassion. Times when God spoke to me and moved me when I didn't even ask. Now I'm learning to ask. And it's tough.

When I do get up the courage to ask, this is what is usually looks like:

I ask God for direction. I ask to him to speak, speak, please speak! Then I immediately get on with my life--brush my teeth, hop in the car, check my email. I keep thinking about the issue or the decision, but I've gone back into my own Aly-world where God is only an innocent bystander.

I ask family and friends what I should do. Well, more accurately, I tell family and friends what I've already decided so they can affirm my wisdom. I read books, lots of books. I journal. I write. I spin the decision around every which way in my brain.

And I still don't know what to do.

Finally frustrated, I give up and ask God why he's been so silent on the issue.

Then, a small, conscience-pricking ping signals somewhere in the back of my very busy brain and even busier life: Aly, why have you been so loud?

Busted.

And then in the silence, in the space my brain has finally made for God, he starts to tell me not what to do, but who I am. He tells me I’m loved. That I’m his daughter. That he will love me and use me no matter what decision I make.

And that is something more valuable than any quote from a book (but, oh how I love quotes!) or pro/con list or slice of friendly advice. That intimacy gives me a courage and security so much deeper than anything I could ever sleuth out on my own.

Which is why today, this week, this hour, I’m going to ask God for direction. And I’m going to listen.