Yelling is a choice …. Yelling is a choice.
I am struggling. This is my ongoing battle as a mother. I am impatient, I want my girl to hurry up.
I am learning that being on time is never more important than speaking kindly to her.
Getting schoolwork done is never more important than living and breathing patience.
Obedience is not effective when enforced by fear, by volume.
When my frustration wells up in my throat and swells my voice and she hasn’t stopped moving, but never in the direction I want her to go, when I send her for shoes and she comes back barefoot with pen and paper …
….
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I’m finding myself in a season where my time is not my own. It’s a glorious time, really, and I’m loving every minute of it.
But I haven’t always enjoyed it.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I used to get quite aggravated. I’m a Type-A personality who keeps a tight calendar. I resented the interruptions to my schedule, wishing someone else could step in when last minute problems arose.
Oh, I could mask my frustration in a churchy way, but deep down I didn’t feel churchy AT ALL.
Can you identify?
I think a lot of women feel that way from time to time, especially moms.
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Love is patient, love is kind. 1 Corinthians 13:4
“Lord, please strike him with a holy bolt of lightning,” I prayed. “No real damage. Just enough to scorch him a little.”
Okay, so I don’t normally pray for my husband’s ruin, but let me explain what happened.
It was a Friday night when Grace was still four months old. I heard her in the monitor and tapped my husband, mumbling something like, “Grshisup.” He stumbled from the bed and down the hall. I followed to make him a bottle and then flopped back in bed. Minutes later, my sleep bubble burst when Alan stomped in our room.
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