Fear, Anger, and a Deep, Deep Well

The dregs in my coffee cup have gone cold as I sit on this swing and watch the sun filter through the trees. It’s dawned on me only today that the window barely peeking over my fence is situated at my neighbor’s kitchen sink, and if they’re doing dishes at this early hour or pouring their own coffee, they can see my watery eyes, the threadbare bathrobe, last night’s disheveled ponytail.

I’m watching the last of the sunrise, knowing I need to head inside and get the kids up. They’ve been up for a while, truthfully, but I’ve got a rule about kids coming downstairs before 7. I swallow the last bit of cooled coffee for the caffeinated benefits rather than the pleasure of the coffee bean, and brace myself to clock in. I should feel more ready, but I don’t. I shouldn’t feel tired yet, but I do. There’s a tiredness down deep, and it’s coming out in ugly hues of impatience and belittling, snapping replies and words I say with convincing authority but don’t really mean.

I’ve been reading John 1 this week, and while my eyes flitted over this morning’s paragraph one last time before closing my Bible, I begged the Lord to let His Word have some effect on my anger today. Please, let it empty me of whatever is making me so angry.

Hours later, when there’s school and work and naps, I stand at the sink, aggressively washing the never-ending army of dishes, and I try to unravel the knotted-up insides of my head. My jeans are too tight and my temper is too short, and all signs point to “caution: danger ahead.” I work at the threads, trying to separate truth from emotion. I know well enough to understand that fear is at the root of anger. And typing that last sentence brings tears to the surface much faster than I’m prepared for.

I’m afraid a lot, friends.
It masquerades as a short fuse or a lack of confidence, but fear is the driving force behind nearly every piece of my anger.

I’m afraid of squandering this parenting thing I’ve chased after, certain I’ll screw up my kids as a result.
I’m afraid of rejection and that I’ll always be hungry for the approval of certain individuals.
I’m afraid of losing the race to achieve my goal.
I’m afraid I’ll never feel tethered where God seems to want me tied down.
I’m afraid of losing my mom.
I’m afraid of the criticism that comes from putting your gifts out there for others.
I’m afraid I’ll wreck my marriage because I can’t get out of my own head.
I’m afraid I’m forgetting what I’ve worked hard to learn about God’s goodness and His love for me.

These things I’m afraid of aren’t usually conscious thoughts. I’m not yelling at one of my kids while thinking, “Oh, I’m mad because I’m afraid that I’m a terrible mother.” No, I’m yelling because I’m selfishly expecting my people to hop to it and obey with a level of perfection and expediency that I would never expect of myself. No, I’m not making conscious connections. But hovering underneath my simmering anger is a razor sharp panic that everything could fall apart in an instant. I could yell too much and lose my child’s heart for good. I could choose to be discontent where I know God’s calling me to see Him and miss the intimacy of His nearness. I could be criticized for my honesty and choose not to say another word. I could lose someone I love and feel throttled with anger at the loss forever.

I sit here wondering how to put it right. How do I undo what I’ve done with my angry words? How do I fix what feels irreparably broken inside? My default answer is to always go to the Word. I tell you that all the time. It’s the cure for what ails you.

But does it work here when I feel like my sin is characterizing me more than my belief in the gospel?
Part of me wants to believe there’s not enough grace for this mess I’ve made, but I know there’s no bottom to that well.

So I send my bucket of repentance down into the deep cavern of living water, praying the Lord will fill it up every time I sink it down low, and knowing more than I know anything else that He will. Like a spring that’s ever bubbling up new water from below, grace is bubbling up and washing out over all this ugliness. While sorrow and regret are weighed down with my dirty disbelief, grace and mercy wash clean and remind me that the Lord holds my future. The things I’m afraid of are not within my control, so living scared means I’m living in doubt that God is sovereignly on His throne, calling the shots with a loyal brand of love I’ve yet to encounter anywhere else in life. I know I never will.

Like the leaves on my morning tree let a little sunlight through with softness and beauty, so the events and circumstances of my life are filtered through the fingers of the Lord who loves me. I don’t have to be afraid, and I definitely don’t have to express my fear through anger. I’m not tied to it like I feel I am.

Because He is good, God reminds me from John 1 that Jesus was with Him in the beginning, the Agent of creation. Nothing that’s been made was made apart from Christ. I couldn’t know God without Jesus making Him known. There is no need to fear when the God of the universe has told us who He is. Jesus stepped down and became like us, one of us. And lived among us so that we would see the futility in bowing down to fear and anger and self-love. He put on skin and made His home among people who did not know who He was so that we could be rescued from darkness, from ourselves, from the enemy we didn’t know we loved. He lived briefly, obscurely, humbly and died painfully, openly, and willingly. He didn’t lose in the tomb but beat death fair and square as only the Son of God could do.

 
He was and is and will be.

So that we can get up in the morning and watch the sunrise with confidence that the gospel He gave us is enough to save us.
He has saved me once, and He is saving me still.

There is no fear in that kind of love.

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