Seventh grade was not a good year for me. I was the short kid. I was the chubby kid. My pants were either too long or too tight around the waist. (Wait, was that seventh grade or last week??) I suppose I was also dealing with some anger issues.

[featured-image single_newwindow=”false”]Used by permission under CC license ‘Intense Game of Puffin-Owl Tetherball’ by Chewonki https://www.flickr.com/photos/chewonki/177930647/[/featured-image]

Your school had tether ball poles, right. Surely you know what I am talking about. Hard yellow ball on a rope, connected to the top of a metal pole that was set in the middle in old tire with a permanent custom concrete rim. Those were the best. If you tilted it at just the right angle and whipped the ball while flinging the whole mess away from you could just about create a E2 tornado right there in the school yard. You better be quick though. Because, like a flash,  round it comes and sometimes, SMACK! It would hit you square in the nose. Some much fun.

Well, one sunny day, I was playing tether ball with as much fervor as my chubby little hands could create. Round and round and round. Suddenly. the local “angry young man”, that happened to be next in line,  said I was out. I said I wasn’t. He said I was. I said I wasn’t. He said…you get the point. Finally, he calmly walked over and put one hand on each of my shoulders. He looked me square in the eyes. He didn’t yell. He didn’t shove me to the dusty blacktop. He simply said, “You are out.” So unlike his usual angry self.

Now, he was at least two years older than me and more than a head taller. This time, I was the one getting mad. So much so that the anger had bubbled up to my eye balls and was ready to start pouring out over my sweaty earlobes. I suddenly lost it. I reared back and laid a hay-maker right across his scruffy teenage chin, dropping him to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes. In retrospect, I suppose that is what I should have done. But it wasn’t. Oh, I reached back and hit him, alright. But it wasn’t a punch, it was more of a girly grade-school slap. And it stung my meaty little paw pretty good too. Ouch.

What was I thinking? Of course, Sister Vasquez, the school yard disciplinarian, was less than 50 feet away and saw the whole thing. Busted. I guess I can be grateful he never had a chance to pound me into Josh-like dust. Anyway, let us fast forward past the unpleasantries that immediately followed and get to the end result: I got suspended from school the next day. The one and only time it ever happened.

And that is why I wasn’t allowed to attend Harvard or Yale. Not really.

I would like to say that day changed me forever and I never had an angry outburst again. But that wouldn’t be true. However, something did affect me from that point forward. I became much more even keeled and less prone to girly middle-school slapfests.

Now as an adult, I feel like I am a pretty patient, even tempered fella. My employees would tell you I can take most situations without losing it. I think I have only raised my voice with one of them a time or two. Yelling is not my style and unbridled anger just creates more. “A soft answer turns away wrath…” is as true today as it was when Solomon penned those words many centuries ago. And I try to live by it. I had a boss, years ago, that told me I could take a lot of…stuff. I wont tell you exactly what he said but I think you get the picture.

[shareable] ‘A soft answer turns away wrath…’ is as true today as it was when Solomon penned those words many centuries ago.[/shareable]

Honestly, this is true of me most everywhere, except home. For whatever reason, no one on earth can get my blood boiling like my kids. It only takes a few snippy words from Sam, or the hint of an attitude from Jen or “that look” from Jon and I am ready to go into girly slapping mode again. POW! POW! POW! Just one to many whines from one of the Littles or another complaint about chores from Steph, Joann, or Jessie and I am ready to throw down WWF style. (I am from the old school, ok?) I am not happy about that. Actually, I hate that about myself. I know I am far from being a perfect dad. Often, I feel I wouldn’t even make the Good Dad cut.

Of all the people on Earth, a Dad should be most tolerant of his children, no? A Father’s patience should extend beyond the horizon for the one’s God has entrusted to his care, right?  So why do I seem to get angry so quickly and sometimes so unjustly?

I have been praying that God would give me more awareness of these times and help me to douse the aggravation before it boils over and requires an apology. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t scream and yell and beat my kids…very often. What I need is more patience…more understanding…more love…more of Him in me. More of Him and less and less of me. That is what I need.

Some like to look at the Old Testament and say how angry and spiteful God was back then. But, I don’t see Him that way. He gave Pharaoh nine chances (plagues) before He took his son in the tenth plague. He sent prophet after prophet, message after message, and warning after warning, before sending his people into captivity for seventy years for their sins. And even while in captivity, He blessed those that chose to serve Him over other gods. No, He is a God, a Father, of unthinkable love, unfathomable mercy, and seemingly unending patience.

[shareable]He is a God of unthinkable love, unfathomable mercy, and seemingly unending patience. [/shareable]

Lord, pour some of that awesomeness into my life and help me shelve the girly slapping once and for all.

Are you struggling with anger at home? Or maybe you would like to share a different struggle you are having as a parent. Leave a comment below or on Facebook and we can learn together how to lead our imperfect families.