Being gentle

I remember shortly after we moved from the city, we found ourselves in a new church with the only small children in the whole parish. There were several families there, most of whom had raised large families--so they knew rather intimately the struggles of parents with wiggly, toy-banging, randomly screeching children during Liturgy. At the time, that meant little to me. I couldn't see anyone else fighting the church equivalent of trench warfare when I looked around the room, so the kids got under my skin, but so did my isolation as the only person in the room with ZERO PATIENCE LEFT.

That's the background for the story in my mental log of church stories for which I have the very most shame. I don't even remember what happened, but Nora, who was two at the time, did...something. And I lost it. I dragged her screaming little body out of the nave by one arm, pulled her into the coat closet and whacked her bottom something fierce. And I yelled. Like...a lot.

I found out later that in a tiny little parish like ours, there aren't a lot of places to hide. Apparently, my temper tantrum was louder than my child's. The whole church heard every angry word.

I suppose it freaking serves me right. Humility is exactly the right thing for an angry soul.

And I'm not switching topics when I say here: I actually have a lot of friends at church now. But believe me, it's not because of how I acted that day. It's because of how they acted that day.

No one said a word to me about our antics. But my priest's wife approached me later when I finally decided to bail (because, believe it or not, my behavior did not solve my child's), and said, "Oh, please don't go. Let me help. I don't have any little ones right now, and I'd love to have one with me. What can I do to make it easier?"

Surely...you don't...want me to stay? But she's yelling and crying...I'm yelling and crying...and you want me here? With you? In the same room? Don't you see how distracting we are to your worship?

She did. She saw all that. And she proceeded to conclude that the best solution for everyone was proximity to Christ and community. Screaming? Crying? Teetering dangerously close to abuse? Furious faces while everyone around us is trying to be pensive and prayerful? Doesn't matter. Bring them to Christ. Learn gentleness at His feet. Take part in His love, because it extends to everyone.

I'm trying to recall this story in my mind, with humility, as I parent age seven.

Age seven makes me feel a lot like I did at age two. I don't yell as much, thankfully, but I go cold, rather often. I tell her in various almost-nice ways to go away and be quiet. And it reminds me of my tantrum at church five years ago. So I started to pray that God would help me be gentler and more loving with Nora.

Today, a beautiful thunderstorm rolled through town. It was the perfect level of storm--enough rumble and dark to make a blanket and the couch look positively lovely, but not so windy you head for the basement. It was, however, enough to make Nora a bit nervous while I was upstairs finishing prayers at the icons. I called to her. "Are you okay, honey?"

"Yeaahhh..."

"You nervous?"

"...a little..."

So I told her to come upstairs with me. She made a little bed for her doll next to me as I prayed a special series of prayers for children. She was in and out, and I continued to read. She nestled into my side, moved to a corner and curled up with a blanket, got up and retrieved a magazine to read while I kept on. Finally, I finished the book and went to blow out the candles.

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Can you pray some more, please?"

I almost said no. And then I realized that would be me saying, no, honey, we cannot pray anymore.

"Of course I can."

So I got out a new book and prayed until it was finally lunch time.

That's how God made me gentle today. But I need new gentleness every moment. So, friends, share some ideas with me. What do you do to show love instead of anger?