I really mulled what to write about for this week's entry.  The obvious was Mothers Day, which I was feeling strongly this year.  But really, when it comes down to it, all there would be is me whining about missing my mother and how long dead she is and how much I've always missed having a mother figure in my life because my mom and I had this reverse relationship where she was the kid and I was the mom and all I wanted to do was have someone rub my hair while I cried into their shoulder and blah blah blah and that's no fun to read OR write, so I nixed it.  It was a pain just to write that paragraph, much less an entire entry about it. 

Eric and I do not celebrate Mothers Day, Fathers Day or Valentine's Day.  We have no disdain for those who do (Don't you really hate it when someone celebrates holidays that you don't or doesn't celebrate holidays that you do and then gets all uppity and snotty about the differences?  I mean really, just settle down!), but we're just so affectionate and happy to be together the other 362 days of the year that we don't bother with the Hallmarky stuff.  The kids usually bring home something from school, which is just precious and the big boys normally call and send a card.  I try to come up with something nice for my mother-in-law. 

So in absence of talking about Mothers Day for all of the completely boring reasons mentioned above, I decided to go in a different direction and talk about something that has been a bit of a societal study for me in the past year or so, particularly in the past couple of months, and that is personal rage.  Not my own, mind you.  I don't have much of it and what I do have, I use for good instead of evil.   I'm not talking about people being rightfully angry from time to time when life or folks treat them poorly, but about those who are constantly angry, always on the edge of some hair-trigger fury.  They walk around sullen and fierce looking, their faces screwed up in a visage of hate and disdain, ready to draw at any second and start firing.  They are engaged in a constant game of one-upmanship with the rest of the word, intent on convincing all of us that they are much better than we are and we should just give up trying and go back into our little hillbilly homes while they demonstrate us how to live the right way via Sharper Image catalog and spending lots of money they don't really have.  On the other hand, we shouldn't even TRY to learn from their example because we don't stand a chance in H E double hockey sticks of ever doing it right anyway.  Not only do they convey that sense of "You can never hope to be as sophisticated as we are," but they are pissed at us for not being as cool as they are.  Pfft.  That's why THEY will never ride on the back of a parade float with big hair and a tiara and sequins and kisses to throw.  Harrumph.  When you're perpetually angry, you miss out on the best things in life like friends who aren't in constant competition with you or kids who aren't snotty and condescending or, well, riding on the back of a parade float with big hair and a tiara and sequins and kisses to throw.

Personally, I think that ongoing rage, whether it is buried or expressed, creates dis-ease in the mind-body-spirit connection which turns into disease (without the hyphen) in all three of those places.  When it comes to rage and the effects thereof, I know from which I speak.

My paternal grandmother was a person one would think of as being a kind and loving person of generous nature because she was a minister of the Lord, woman of the cloth, etc.  She was one of the first ordained female ministers in our area and therefore, was something of an oddity.  Her particular spiritual path, to which she clung fiercely, was in the Pilgrim Holiness ministries.  She was ordained in the old timey way where you actually go to seminary and graduation and the whole bit.

That's Grandma over there to the left.  She's the one in the red.  The somber looking gentleman with the "please help me" look on his face is my Grandpa, here on his 90th birthday.  To balance out the equation, Grandpa was the kindest, gentlest, most loving man to ever grace the planet and I miss him desperately.  When the craftsman fella handmade the cane you see beside him, he carved the name "Mary" into the handgrip.  (My Grandma's name was Mary Esther)  He then told Grandpa, "I did that because it's the only way you will ever have Mary in the palm of your hand."  My Uncle Delmar swears I look just like my grandmother, but honestly, I don't see it, although I do preach a mighty fine sermon, thank you very much.

Grandma could really whip'em up into a frenzy, that's for sure.  There was no camp meeting she could not command and no sinner she was afraid to wade in and get from the bowels of hell.  I swear, if Carrie Nation and Benny Hinn had a child (impossible, I know, but go with it here), it would be Grandma.  She never cut her hair, not from the day she was born until the day she died and she wore it all rolled up in a sausage roll curled into a smile shape around the base of her skull.  She always, always wore stockings, the old heavy kind with the girdle and garters, and her dresses always had at least 3/4 length sleeves and hems down between her knees and her ankles.  She always smelled sweaty, old man sweat smells, likely because because by the time I knew her, she was already hot flashing and she had all those layers of clothes on with the stocking and the long underwear and the heavy slip and all. 

She would preach and weep and pray and weep for hours on end, allowing herself to be completely consumed by the power of God and of prayer.  God bless her, if you asked Grandma to pray over Thanksgiving Dinner, you'd be lucky to eat it before Christmas, not that you'd have much of an appetite once she got finished stoking the fires of hell for all manner of wretches while the turkey gelled and the sweet potatoes got runny. 

The thing is that even from the time I was a little girl, I always wondered if God was really what was at work in Grandma because she was just so doggoned furious all the time.  I don't think in all my 45 years of life and then some that I have ever met a woman, or a man for that matter, who was as perpetually angry as was Grandma.  She was very personally offended to the highest order that there was sin in the world and more directly, that there were sinners in the world and she was determined to extinguish every single one of'em, one way or another.  If you weren't going to be part of the solution, you were damned well part of the problem and that meant you'd better be out of her way or shrapnel was going to hit.

When I was a child, I feared her desperately, which she said was the Devil at work in me. In my 30's, I tried desperately to reach out to her, worried about how she'd isolated herself from the people she loved with her own hatred and anger.  They were all sinners anyway and since they hadn't reached the state of spiritual perfection in which she'd found herself situated, they were worthy only of her disdain.  One by one, everyone shut her out, so I decided I was going to be the one who stayed. 

For a while, it seemed as though we might be able to find peace with one another.  She would call from time to time and we'd chat, but as soon as she'd start bringing up the sin of my mother or of my brothers or uncles or whatever wretched and tempest tossed soul might be on her mind, I'd redirect her to some of the good things about that person and then deftly change the conversation to something else.  We were on really good terms when Grandpa died, which made me happy.  We were both really grieving him and she was with him in their home the day he passed one Christmas Eve, so she took it pretty hard.

Not too long after that, my husband at the time (not Eric - the other one) came home from a military trip and announced that he was in love with someone he'd met on the trip and had been courting by phone for many months.  They were getting married which necessitated that we get divorced.  Negotiation was not an answer.  This was the first I'd heard of his undying love for this woman and honestly, I didn't take it well for a lot of reasons best not explored here.

In the end, despite my determined efforts to save the marriage, we divorced and I moved from Idaho (*full body shudder*)   where we'd been living at Mountain Home Air Force Base out to Sacramento with my kids.  I was a single mom, struggling to keep everyone fed and working too many jobs to do it.  She would call and, inspired by my recent divorce, read Galatians 5 to me and talk about the imminence of my spiritual suicide unless I was able to win Paul back to the fold of his family.  She wasn't much listening to the fact that I didn't want him back and that he was marrying some other broad.  She also didn't want to hear about his chronic behavioral problems stemming from some kind of mental issues and from alcoholism (the Lord could cure him of that if I could just get him back).  She just wanted me to pray with her that like his namesake on the road to Damascus, Paul would see the light and the Devil would leave him and he'd come crying home to us, begging forgiveness from us and from God.  It was just a matter of time and I had to be patient and wait for him.

The nutshell was that I was letting the Lord down by not winning back my husband from that floozy who stole him from me.  While her intentions may have been good, it's not really what you want to hear for a couple of hours after working graveyard shift answering telephones and coming home to kids who had to be ready for school about an hour after you got there and a pre-schooler who ran on high octane, going at warp 7 with her hair on fire and her ass a'catchin' from the minute she opened her eyes until she fell asleep in her tracks that night and you readied to do the whole thing over again the next day.

So Grandma preached to me and I would thank her for praying for me and with me and tell her I was doing my best and sometimes literally go to sleep while she was still talking to me.  My Mama, who was still alive back then, didn't understand why I kept doing it and now, I don't either.  I guess I needed to feel as though I'd exhausted every opportunity to keep her in my life.

In retrospect, I can see that the long term preaching got to be strike one.  Strike two came when she found out that Joe, my oldest son, was babysitting Delena while I worked and she fretted that his baser nature (which all men had and could not control to Grandma's mind) might lead him to behave in an untoward manner toward her.  It was surely only a matter of time until he did God only knew what to her.  Delena was about 4 at the time and he was 19 and the idea that the thought even came into her head offended me tremendously.  The fact that she would give voice to it offended me even more.

Strike three came when she started calling the boys, who were then teens, at home while she knew I was working and telling them that they had to make sure to save me from spiritual damnation by trying to convince their dad to come back.  They also were to go through my personal belongings to make sure that I wasn't seeing anyone on the sly (like there was TIME), since in the eyes of God I was still married to Paul and would be until one of us died.

As much as it hurt me, I had to tell her that she and I couldn't have contact any more.  Her influence in our home was upsetting, to say the least.  I'd many times asked her not to pursue those lines of discussion, but as she tended to be, my Grandma was on a holy pilgrimage of salvation and let me tell you, you just don't monkey with Grandma when she's pilgrimaging.

She just would not be dissuaded and the end result were a number of conversations that began with, "I know you don't want to hear this, which is Satan working in you, but..."

So I told her I loved her and wished her well and changed my phone number and didn't hear from her again nor did she hear from me.  I heard of her about 5 years later when she was in a hospital in Andersen, Indiana dying.  Sure enough, all of that sin anger balled up in a furious little knot and embedded into her uterus, where cancer began to grow and eventually consumed her.

A very distant relative contacted me to ask about funeral arrangements when her death was imminent.  I gave them information about the plot of land with a house on it in our home town that they owned free and clear and informed them that I was sure there was a way the hospital and funeral home could divide up the worth of the house.  Heaven knows I was nearly penniless and couldn't afford to fly back for the funeral or contribute to her burial.  I told myself what she'd told me my whole life; that God would provide.

Grandma's death, of course, brought none of the answers that I needed.  It did teach me the valuable lesson that if someone is toxic enough, they need to no longer be in your life, no matter who they are.  The answers I needed, however, were important and remain unanswered.  How could the feelings *I* got in the presence of The Almighty translate out into so much hatred and fury and resentment through her?  I have encountered God through many paths and in many forms and inevitably, the feeling is the same and it's not anything that would create so much ongoing and vehement rage.  To me, being in the true presence of God is like a sneeze.  It's consuming, it's powerful, you recognize it immediately and without question when you feel it, but it's hard to describe to others.  You just know it and whatever Grandma was doing, in my experience, wasn't it.  I have even been confronted with the anger of God and that wasn't what she was manifesting either.

As my life progressed from the time of her death, I began to struggle with the ideas of "judgment" versus "discernment."  It became very popular and like some kind of badge of honor to say that you "don't judge people."  Suddenly, movies and TV shows were ranting about people who "judged" other people.  "You have NO RIGHT to judge ME!"  Mainstream population picked up the chant and pretty soon, we had a whole generation of people terrified of their own ability to figure out when they ought not to be hanging around with someone. 

I laughed when I heard that first wail of "Don't judge me!!", thinking of how ridiculous it sounded.  (Incidentally, we're segueing off of Grandma here - don't worry, I'll tie it up in a bit)  If we aren't judging people, we are dead.  That whole "Judge not lest ye be judged" issue means that we have no right to judge unless we are living a life that we are proud of and can hold up to others and comfortably allow ourselves to be judged.  At least that's what I take it to mean.  None of us should be living a life that leaves us feeling shamed and if we are, well then, we ought to feel ashamed for not making it better.  When did people become so comfortable and apathetic in their own ineptitude that they feared judgment from others rather than fixing what's broken?  I apologize for how harsh that sounds, but isn't that what it is?  We are afraid to formulate an opinion on other people because that then leaves an opening for them to formulate an opinion about us.  We are also afraid of being thought the worst of for assembling our own thoughts into a sound judgment of others. 

The bottom line truth is that for better or worse, we ALL judge, we just don't all talk about it or else keep it to the safety of conversations with our friends.  Whether it's thinking that so-and-so sure seems like a good mother or that such-and-such is wearing that skirt just a leetle too short or this-and-that sure does look fiiiine as wiiiine in those tight jeans and western shirt, we all judge in our minds.  It just may or may not come out of our mouths.  We judge people on first impressions and long-term ones.  We may change our assessment of people as they grow and evolve or as we grow and evolve or both.  We might be confronted with compelling evidence that our first impressions about a person were inaccurate or further experience might show us that they were dead on and we should have honored them more.  Regardless, it is human nature and mammal instincts to arrive at assessments about other people from first meeting on.   

Another way to judge, in prettier terms, is to discern.  If we know that someone is a drug user and a violent sexual offender, do we not (Dear Lord, I hope) use discernment to not employ them as our babysitter?  Is that not casting a judgment on what we know about that person?  If we know that a person chronically uses language we do not want our children to emulate, would we not offer similar discernment, even though the inherent safety issue to the child is quite different? 

Every day, we formulate ideas and opinions about others based on our own observations and assessments and on information we receive from others.  In my opinion, anyone who says that they do not "judge others" is either deluded or outright lying or is scared to death of the word or all of the above.  We use those ideas and opinions we get from judging to create and protect our own environment.  It's our responsibility, in stewardship to our emotional, mental, spiritual and sometimes physical well being to be discriminating in where we invest our energy, in the types of people with whom we surround ourselves and in the continuation or discontinuation of relationships that do not support our own health in those areas. 

We all know people who are so drama-invested that they live in a chronic state of emergency.  When we are with those people, our bodies change physically and we react to the stress that they create.  Ragey people can actually make us sick without we, ourselves, doing anything at all.  The tension and anger that radiates from them is a true contaminant.

I am firm in the conviction that it is our responsibility to protect ourselves from negative influence as much as we possibly can.  That is not to say that difficulties will not arise or that personal conflict and relationship challenges are not inherent to human life.  More that if we know that someone is an ongoing source of personal angst and tension, that it can be more merciful to sever the relationship than to continue in a dysfunctional dance.  At a minimum, one should establish and protect the dancing distance between the two of you so that you, yourself, are not suffering from the choices the other person makes to constantly express themselves in anger and your own choice to continue having them in your life.

Although the past year has taught me a lot about working through bumps in the road of friendship, I still am uncomfortable with and will actively dismiss people who live their lives the majority of the time from a position of rage.  I just don't have time nor patience for it in my life and no desire to nurture it around me.  Grandma taught me that sometimes, people are just too angry to be allowed within your sphere of influence.  (See, I told you the tie in was coming).

Even in our wonderful town, I see evidence of people who allow their ongoing anger to take them over to the point that people who would otherwise have enjoyed knowing them begin to push them away and even warn others about them.  I personally know of two different individuals (both male and remarkably similar in character, in fact) who have gone out of their way to rant and rage and berate other folks in our community to their faces for (get ready) driving too slowly up the mountain.  Sure, it's frustrating to get behind someone who isn't going as fast as we'd like to, but to actually get aggressive about it, jump up in their faces and cuss them out over it?  To take another adult to task because they were driving in such a way as to add maybe 5 minutes or so onto the trip?  That is just ludicrous and speaks to the extreme lack of character of the aggressor.  For me, I'd MUCH rather follow slowly behind someone who is driving as fast as their mountain driving confidence allows them than to follow some hotdog who is getting up the mountain as fast as they can, safety not withstanding. 

I have met people who are downright PROUD of their anger and wear it like an armor, bragging about it to others and sure that no one will ever push THEM around because they're such badasses, always on the alert, always ready to be furious about some injustice, real or imagined.  Often, the injustice they rant about is that no one ultimately wants to invest time in them because they are so terminally pissed off.  Guess they didn't believe the "bullies are really cowards" speech they heard in school and just got excited because bullies get the lunch money.  They missed the part about how the only people who hang out with bullies are other bullies.  They also missed the old adage about "If they'll do it with you, they'll do it too you" and tend to be surprised when the "honor among thieves" idea falls short and soon they are on the harsh end of the rage of one of their anger colleagues.  Of course, that just gives them another fun confrontation to notch onto their anger belt.

The saddest part is that there is no one the rest of the world loves to see fall down with a resounding thud moreso than the playground bully.  Sure, a lot of people will give into bullying just to get rid of the person and shut them up and yes, the most common end result is that the bully tends to get exactly what they want because other people DO want to shut them up.  They are taught that such behavior works in life, so they continue to use it.  But ultimately, when someone really does stand up to that bully and refuses to give them what they want just because they're loud, rude and mean, it's those people who caved in who stand up and cheer the loudest as the bully slinks away without their reward.  Like I used to tell my daughter when she was little and demanding and pouty, "Sometimes, the answer is just NO."

Anger takes so much energy and as Grandma proved out, eats you from the inside out.  Discernment, however, protects your environment and allows you to co-exist with people who contribute positively to your day-to-day life experience.  I am the first to admit that you can truly love someone, but know that they are not a positive influence in your life.  It's not always that one person is "right" and the other is "wrong," but that it's just not a good fit.  I don't believe for a whit that all relationship are hard and complicated.  Some are and some aren't.  When they are tough, I believe that most of the time, it's a communication problem more than anything.  I have many people in my life that are fun and easy and a joy to have around and with whom there is very rarely any conflict.  No matter how much you love a person, you should not have to constantly work and sweat and toil to have a mediocre relationship with them.  Sometimes, just releasing with love before resentments can set in is a healthy thing to do.

I have a three strikes rule (hey, it worked with Grandma!) and I tend to stick with it.  For a while after the divorce, I went to one strike just because I was feeling peckish and reluctant to be hurt again any time soon.  If someone did me wrong or completely disrespected me, they were gone.  Period.  Recently, I went back to three strikes instead of one and it works well.   If someone goes off on me once in some kind of rage explosion, I figure it's altogether possible, especially if they are a menopausal woman like myself, that they just temporarily lost their mind.  It might not in any way be indicative of a long term problem and most likely, they just hit the straw that snapped the camel's back and I happened to be the straw flinger of the moment. 

If it happens again, I can still figure that maybe it's just a bad stretch they're having, but I'm definitely filing away an incident report for further reference if needed.

If it happens a third time, I figure it constitutes a trend and they're out.

A very, very precious and absolutely darlin' friend of mine once said, "This town is too small to hold grudges" and while I appreciated the sentiment and especially the sweet heart from which it came, all I could think of was, "Then honey, you aren't doing it right."  That's about half a joke because while I do believe that grudges are really just rage under a different name and will eat you up just as fast, I do believe in learning lessons and once someone had taught me well that they are capable of behaving in a way that is not what I'm willing to tolerate in terms of how I'm treated, they "get wished to the cornfield."  That saying comes from an ancient old episode of "The Twilight Zone" where a little boy "wished to the cornfield" the people whose behavior he did not appreciate.  We got the feeling, confirmed later in the show, that the cornfield is NOT a happy place to be.  I, however, turn it around so that the cornfield is a happy place to be, I'm just not in it and they are.  As a friend of mine use to put it so delicately, "They are outside of my realm of influence."  They exist.  I will be cordial.  That's about it.   I invest no energy or emotion into them.  Bridges are made to be burned sometimes and I can sure believe a person when they show me who they really are a few times.  I just...disengage and it seems to work well for me. 

Definitely not everyone is meant to fit well together and I am very willing to honor those limitations... or even define them sometimes.

None of us should ever have to be abused verbally or otherwise because another person insists on allowing rage to be the fuel from which they draw their strength and identity...sometimes even their ego, which is just a doggone shame.

It's so much easier and more gratifying to just eat cake and be happy.

Maybe I should follow in Grandma's footsteps and set up a camp meeting to exorcise all of the demons of rage from people. 

ANGER MONGERS, BE HEEEEAAALL-DAH!!

Be particular (and I do mean particular),