I woke up on the wrong side of the bed yesterday. The kind of morning where from the first moment you open your eyes, you're filled with discontent. A subtle, yet palpable discomfort, a general lack of enthusiasm for any and all events that may ensue in the following moments, hours, and god forbid, day.
Unfortunately for both of us, this internal aggression did not wane. You all know what I'm talking about. Not one of those days that you understand why you're frustrated, angry even. The kind of day where you have no idea why you're in such a foul mood, you can't put your finger on it, and you're angry about that too, thanks very much.
On those kind of days, I seem to welcome unhappy occurrences with open arms. Over sleeping for class, getting a bad grade, falling off my bike. Spilling coffee. Even trying to brush tangled hair or stubbing my toe would send me over the edge. And it did not stop after college. The kid I nanny would be a terror, or maybe I'd accidentally pour gasoline on my hand at the Exxon. You get the idea. It's as if the universe knows you're having a rough time of it, and wants to consolidate all of the bad things that might happen over the span of a month into that single, solitary, bad day.
I have also been known to have a temper on these aforementioned 'bad' days. Things rock and roll and culminate into frustration that generally results in my feeling heavy chested and quick tongued. I've always been able to spit fighting words. With my fervor for wit and sarcasm, and a naturally sardonic humor, being obnoxious and insulting when frustrated comes ever so naturally.
But what happens when you're angry at someone that cannot help themselves? And even if they could, it's not their fault you're angry in the first place.
Consider the evidence.
Yesterday when I woke up, I immediately hit my head on the banister of my bed. I couldn't get the sheets off my feet to sit upright, and in the process of detanglement I managed to kick over my water bottle.
The power was out, I would have to make coffee on the stove, I burnt my hand, the gas ran out- I couldn't find my singular English speaking cohort to inquire about a new can of gas. I went to the kids' kitchen, I burnt the coffee on the stove, it's 6:47 am.
Coffee managed, a bitterly cold shower, and an apple later, I'm sitting on the front porch- drinking my coffee and trying to gather myself. I can feel the internal discord rumbling, and not knowing how to silence it, I opt for the ever unfortunate method of self oblivion.
'No, I'm not in a bad mood, dammit.'
Then come the kids. Seraphina hits me in the arm with her water bottle. She doesn't mean to hurt me, but she cannot speak, is wheelchair bound, and has limited mobility or control of her arms. She is thirsty and is letting me know. It's not a lot to ask- and she had no better way to do so, but I'm angered that she hit me so hard, that she interrupted my conversation with another child, and that she continued to 'speak' at me though she is unable to pronounce words, thus speaking in an overwhelming vocabulary of oohs and eehs. Trying to overcome myself, I smile and help her with her drink. She has to tip her head back and open her throat, waiting for me to pour the liquid in at my own will. And I think to myself, forgive me Lord.
Then comes teddy. Highly intelligent and communicative, he cannot speak and is also wheel chair bound. Teddy comes to say hello as I'm finishing up with seraphina and accidentally rolls over my foot with his wheelchair. Pain aside, the cleanliness of the floor of the facility is not questionable- it's detestable. That's not to say it isn't thoroughly cleaned during the course of the day and night- it's just to say that the wheelchairs come and go throughout the cleaning process, and I try not to think about the microcosm of a sanitation crisis that is happening on them- unless, of course, they roll over my sandal clad foot. Unaware of what has occurred, teddy aims to position himself near my face, and reverses back over my foot. He is drooling and as his laugh crackles and his eyes shine, he drools and and grabs my hand, a cataclysm of saliva and fingers, he wants to say hello- and so happy to see me, his laugh is seismic. It erupts in a series of high pitched squawks and chortles, he starts to cough, and before I can do anything, he has coughed spit directly into my face. Repulsed, but not offended, I again try and will myself into a complacent state. Unable to refrain from frustration, I sigh and dislodge myself from his hands. Walking away, I think. Dear Lord, forgive me.
Up the ramp to the second floor for 9 am prayers. I watch Gesner pick trash off the wheel of a chair, and put it in his mouth. My stomach rolls. John John comes towards me, his hands tied into protective mittens, watery eyes and a triumphant lineage of mucus streaming from his nose, he sees me and barrel runs towards me, lodging his face into my torso, wiping his nose all over my shirt as he clings on to me like a baby panda. Gesner has come to hold my hand in prayers, as he always does. But I can't pray, I'm thinking about the slime and grit that grinds between our hands, that we clasp so tightly. I can't pray, and I cannot let go. God, forgive me.
I'm feeding Josye. I give him too much rice in one bite, he begins to cough, showering me with semi digested grains of rice. I give him another bite that he nonchalantly spits onto his chin, and down his chest. I'm angry. There's nothing more to say. Why is he doing this to me.
To me? Really Elizabeth? Jesus, forgive me.
I'm playing ball with Mamoun. She's being a lazy participant, unenthused and disengaged. She is wheelchair bound, doesn't speak, and has one functional arm. She's generally a big advocate of playing catch, but when a different teacher calls my name, and I turn my head, though previously cathartic, she chooses that moment to shotgun the ball into my shin. As I'm grumpily attempting to reclaim the ball, I bend down between to wheelchairs, balancing on the balls of my feet, and BJ, unable to control the motion in any of his limbs, but wanting to touch me, flails his very strong arms towards me and his thumb catches my cheek and scratches me, leaving an angry streak. Angry that I've been hurt. Angry at Bj, angry. I lurch upright and my necklace, caught in the wheel of the chair snaps. What is there to do? It's not his fault. It's not his choice. He's doing the best he can? And what am I doing?
I'm asking for forgiveness.
I'm loving in spite of myself.
I'm smiling through my anger- and I'm trying to mean it.
And I promise you- it isn't me. I'm not rising above.
It is Jesus.
We are expected to love the way Jesus loves us- unconditionally, whole heartedly, self sacrificially, and that is not me.
It is God
Be a vessel.
Rise above yourself.
And if we thought. If we really thought that Jesus' commandment to love our neighbor as ourself meant loving our mother and our best friend- if it meant loving everyone at our gym, at our church, at our local organic coffee shop, at the wine bar on Friday night. If we thought that, if we get a warm fuzzy feeling when we pass the peace on Sunday morning-
I think if that was true, that I wouldn't have been filled with rage and guilt yesterday.
Let me be clear.
It is not easy to love as God loves.
Unconditionally, unequivocally,
Without judgment or fear.
I cannot do it.
But Jesus can. And he can through me.
Love The Lord with all your heart and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.
Smile in spite of yourself. And mean it.
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