angry

         Shards of blood-red glazed pottery lay throughout my junk drawer, once a teacup with dimpled sides and a matching saucer. A gift from my dear friend Jen over fifteen years ago, I've carried this set with me each time the Army moved us. It was a reminder of her friendship, a hard-won connection that took over two years to forge, two years to soften and whittle away the barriers of personality and position. We were both introverts, more comfortable with a cozy blanket and a good book at home than in the platitudes and small talk generally needed to clear the path to friendship at the small duty posting in rural Bavaria, Germany where our husbands were a part of an aviation unit. Her husband was a warrant officer at the time, in my husband's company. I was the commander's wife. Unknown to all but my dear husband, I stepped into this role with more trepidation and unease than excitement. She and I both attended the chapel women's group, and it was there where we began making connections. Then once the soldiers were deployed, we enjoyed lunch after church at a nearby gasthaus. These lunches lasted hours and ended with sipping capuccino and holding my infant son who would usually nap for most of the time. 

        And yet here I stood, gingerly picking out the jagged remains of my precious gift, sent to me a few years after we left, evidence of Jen's love for scavenging at flea markets and decorating with vintage. 

        "Mama, can you superglue it together?" asked my ten-year old. 

        "No honey, I can't. Its in too many pieces."

        "I'm sorry, Mama," she said softly.

        "No, honey," I answered, my heart breaking into innumerable pieces inside me. "I did this. It was all me."

        I continued to heap up the pile of crimson shards, eyes fixed on brokenness before me. It was a visual of what I felt inside. A conversation outside in the garage with another daughter about something unimportant, her writing paragraph. Well, not unimportant to her, but in the overall scheme of things...not worthy of the destruction that would to come. I had a hand on a snow shovel, ready to brush off the cars sitting in the driveway. 

        Perhaps I was feeling the pressure of my husband's absence, as this would be something I'd let him take care of for us. Yet here I was, asking her to grab the car keys for me so I could get started. But she wanted my help. So I tried. I really tried to help, to walk her through the answers to questions she asked, but as she became more and more upset, something inside me began to tighten. And swell. 

        I've tried to help you. I don't know what else to do. Every suggestion I make, you push aside. What do you want from me? 

        This is too much for me. I have to do this job outside, so that I can feel safe. In case something happens, I can get out of the driveway. Don't you understand?

        All of these thoughts and emotions ticked inside me, unspoken, unnoticed, unheeded, until the feelings burst out. I stomped inside with my fur-lined winter boots, crossed the living room to the drawer where the keys are kept, jerked it open, grabbed the keys, and slammed it closed. I crossed the room and slammed the door shut. I could hear a sharp thump as a painting fell off the wall. 

        As I moved, I could feel His Spirit grieving, inside me, at the destruction I was inflicting. Not just on the drawer, the door, the painting, but on my childrens' hearts and on mine. On the taut, tender fabric of our family relationships, which are still reeling from my husband's departure three weeks ago. 

       Verses from James streamed into my mind, searing into my heart with a sharp blade:  "....man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires...' "...in your anger, do not sin..." 

        As I stepped outside, the cold air hit me like an icy blast. I began scraping the car window, watching as bits and pieces of ice and snow flooded to the ground. Oh God, forgive me for what I've done. My anger did that. And if it broke that precious piece of pottery into smithereens, how much destruction is unseen that my anger has caused?"

        God's forgiveness is by faith, and He washes our sin, like crimson, as white as snow. Yet my anger hurts, destroys. The consequences are unseen, deep. I need the grace of God more than I could ever imagine. And I see this, more and more as I get older. My words. My actions. They have such great potential to heal, build up, restore. And yet unheeded, my emotions can destroy the very relationships that are meant to be vessels through which Christ reveals Himself through me. So in this, I seek His grace upon grace, to do what I cannot. 

        Heal my anger, Father!  Even if it is justified. A byproduct of grief, a knee-jerk reaction to loss of control, pain. Yet still destructive.

        And if the Potter can craft the vessel with such precision and skill, He can surely make it whole again, even with broken pottery. His light shines through imperfect pieces, redeemed places of brokenness made complete again. 

      

soli deo gloria