Temper, Temper

This is a difficult post for me to write. Mainly because I was not the hero of this story, I was the villain. Yet each story has a lesson, and I’m trying to pin down what the particular lesson is in this story.

The story begins in the picturesque setting of Gatlinburg, TN, on a Saturday. We just concluded a week’s vacation in a lovely cabin with an awesome view. I was driving, Robin was riding shotgun, and she was trying to follow the checkout directions form the cabin owners. We needed to text a picture of the sign out front to the owners. We were parked ahead of the sign, and Robin needed me to back up. She explained what was needed, and asked me to back up.

At that time, I was at the beginning of a bladder infection that was just diagnosed a few days ago. My lower back, which has herniated discs, was also hurting after a week on a strange bed. I have, over the years, developed a high tolerance for pain, but my subconscious does not care. I was hurting, and it led me to be very short and curt with Robin. It also caused me to forget how Robin will nurse an injury. Women are from Venus, and all that.

Fast forward to Sunday. We drove mainly straight through, a six hour trip. I was still not feeling well, and I was tired, having not slept well. I’m sitting in my recliner, with Robin sitting next to me. I can’t recall what was said, as is usual, but I snapped. I said something spiteful to her, and she responded angrily. We traded angry responses, and I was getting angrier. My voice rose as I yelled at Robin. I can only imagine what my face (fit for radio under the best of circumstances) looked like.

I was now standing halfway across the room, yelling at Robin. Suddenly, a mamma bear was standing in front of me. Jessica heard us screaming and came up to let me know that her sons heard us. I traded curt words with her and stormed off to my office. There I spent the rest of the day. At least I had the pleasure of watching Manchester United beat Liverpool 2-1, at Anfield, Liverpool’s home field. But it didn’t have the joy I would usually feel after a big win.

I have always had a terrible temper, at times I went berserk. I got my temper from my father. He once crossed a street to punch a guy who whistled at my mom. He learned to curb his temper, and I rarely saw him lose it.

When I was in college, I was having dinner at a McDonald’s I worked at in downtown Bloomington, IN. It had an upstairs dining area, where I found myself watching a terrible scene. Two drunks were harassing a special needs person I worked with in the dorm cafeteria. Nothing makes me angrier than a bully. I picked up my tray to go, and walked by their table. I stopped, leaned over and whispered so my friend couldn’t hear me. I said, “You guys must feel real big, bothering a guy who can’t fight back.”

I went down the stairs, threw my trash away, and walked out the door. I didn’t know the two guys followed me out. My first clue was a two-handed shove into my back. The shove caused me to put my hands out to catch myself against the side of the store. The thumb on my right hand hit the wall, tearing it out of the thumb socket. That hurt like hell. Tactical mistake #1: Starting a fight under the influence.

When I go berserk, I don’t go wild, I go cold. After a brief, white-hot burst of pain in my thumb, I felt nothing. I turned, and the guy who shoved me had his thumbs tucked into his belt. He was looking over his right shoulder, telling his buddy what he was going to do to me. Tactical mistake #2: Taking your eyes off of your target.

He turned back to look at me and met my right fist, with my thumb flopping around. The punch rocked him back, and he bum-rushed me. Tactical mistake #3: Lowering your head and trying to tackle someone in close quarters. I grabbed him in a reverse head lock. My left arm was over and around the back of his neck.

He pushed me back against a low, brick wall, cutting my left leg. I ended up sitting on the wall, holding this guy by the neck. I began to squeeze. The guy’s buddy started telling his friend to hit me. I thought that was excellent advice, so I began working over the guy’s kidneys and groin, and I wasn’t gentle. Tactical mistake #4: Don’t kibbutz during a fight. Join in or get away.

He began to wriggle a lot, and I let him go. He stood up, red-faced and bleeding. I hit him twice on the nose; I’m sure I broke it on the first punch. He went down, and his buddy finally entered the fray, saying, “I’m going to get you!” Tactical mistake #5: Don’t telegraph your intentions.

I hit guy #2 several times about his face, then hip-tossed him. By that time, we were close to the street. The toss landed him in the street, and a car screeched to a halt, nearly hitting him. He got up, staggered to his buddy, and they left. I sat back down on the wall and waited for the after effects I knew were coming. Sure enough, I got the shakes, and felt my two major injuries, my thumb and the cut on my leg.

I didn’t need stitches in my leg, but my right thumb was in a cast for six weeks. I was student teaching at the time, and I had to come up with a cover story for the cast. I also decided that I could not afford to lose my temper.

As a young father, this was made difficult due to the corticosteroids I took to treat my Crohn’s Disease. The steroids didn’t cause my temper. What they did was to put me in a constant state of stimulation, and I often reached the breaking point. My students still share stories of some of the awful things I did in the classroom. Jessica recalls occasions of me screaming at the top of my lungs.

Such incidents always leave me ashamed. I prefer being in control, which I got from my mother, so I don’t like losing control. Yet here I was, once again staining the family home with hateful screaming.

I am responsible for what I say or do. Nothing Robin or Jessica says or does makes them responsible for what I did. It was all on me, and I had failed as a husband and a father.

“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word, and to present her to himself as a radiant church, without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish, but holy and blameless. In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself.” (Ephesians 5:25–28 (NIV)) Yup. Nailed it.

“As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.” (Psalm 103:13 (NIV)) I am batting a thousand. When I lose my temper, I am so far away from being Christ-like.

When you commit a sin, which I did, you first have to acknowledge that what you did was wrong. This can be a titanic struggle with our egos. We throw up defenses like the stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I worked my way through all of them on Sunday and into Monday. On Monday I texted Robin, briefly telling her I was sorry. I said I would tell her face-to-face when she got home.

I had to go to CVS to pick up some meds, and I came back with an infinity rose. It’s an apology gift. It’s red, to symbolize my love. It will not wither, so I will have a constant reminder of why it’s there. I need to get back to the biblical roots of being a good husband and father.

My wife, children, and grandchildren deserve no less.