StoriesAboutGod.org

I sputtered in frustration.  “This makes me so mad!” There was an open jar of peanut butter, a gooey knife on a sticky counter, crumbs and a milk-rimmed glass on the kitchen table.  Pity the woman who marries this messy son of mine!

Because my husband was away on a business trip, I had been almost salivating on the way home from work, looking forward to a weekend of solitude in my clean, recently emptied nest.  My husband enjoyed having our son use our house as a pit stop, but it had obviously gotten on my nerves big time.

Appalled at the actual taste of bile in my mouth on seeing the unexpected kitchen mess, I realized I had to do something about my ongoing irritation with our twenty-year-old son.  I was turning sour.  He had recently moved into his own place.  Since he didn’t sleep at our house, he felt quite independent.  He saw no need to help out, or clean up after himself, but liked to hang out at our house where there was a refrigerator that had food in it.

This is just like when he . . . (blah, blah, blah) . . . I rehearsed, even though I knew the mess in the kitchen was all out of proportion in my mind, being linked to his history of offenses. The silently swallowed irritations were fermenting and if I didn’t find a release one way or another, I was afraid I’d explode.  There would have to be a confrontation. I hate confrontation, but I also hated what was happening inside me. 

So I planned to make a list of the complaints I had against him, to explain these were things that drove a woman crazy; that he needed to know this if he was ever going to be a good husband.  I then visualized that he would apologize. I would forgive him.  My anger would be gone.  It seemed like a reasonable plan.  I made my list: seven years of suppressed frustration – I thought of thirty-six complaints.

For a physical release of my tension, I went on a long walk; list in hand, my feet pounding out a prayer for God’s help in the upcoming confrontation with my son.

Tiring, I slowed down my frustrated striding in order to tune in to a familiar, still, small voice.  And suddenly I had a quite different confrontation. 

social bookmark this story

 |  send to a friend | contact Linda Lawrence |  contact a pastor