Shame and humility

My harsh words reflect back at me in the angry face. If it were another person speaking to my child this way, I would never, ever, allow it! But, somehow, they explode out of my mouth, again and again. Words of frustration, irritation. Words that wonder how and why and what is wrong with you? Words that do nothing to help, but everything to harm. And yet they burst forth, seemingly against my very will to allow only helpful and kind words to pour out of my mouth.

Just when I think I have everything under control, when I’m riding high on the Lord’s goodness, I am cut down to size. Attacked on every side. I am tested, and I fail. Miserably. It is not God who is testing, He who is full of grace and mercy would not want me to fail when my children’s hearts are at stake. It is he who would rather see me fail than succeed. He who delights in my anger, in my hurt, in my ability to hurt. He who is jealous of a God who loves and forgives and desires us to do the same. And I give in to him. I turn from God, and follow the nature that is sin.

I could have stayed there. Once I fail, it’s hard to adorn myself in humility. It’s hard for me to admit my wrongdoings and seek forgiveness. But it’s part of my growing. It’s part of God’s lesson in my life. I turn back to God because He has not removed Himself from me. He is the one that pricked my conscious, that allowed me to see the hurt on my child’s face, that allowed me to feel the guilt of causing that pain. I turn back to God because it was I who turned my back on Him. I turn back to God and I am humbled. He who forgives before I even ask.

I stop my child who is walking away from me with a dark scowl on his face, I reach for him with both arms. I wrap my arms around him and tell him I am sorry. I tell him it was wrong of me to yell at him. That I am frustrated but I should not have yelled at him. I ask him for forgiveness, for this broken relationship will not be rejoined until that happens.

And it breaks him. It breaks the hard shell of anger to what is really underneath. My harsh words have placed layer and layer of hard protection around his tender heart, and when I tell him I’m sorry, when I tell him I am wrong, the shell cracks. And what is soft inside seeps out. It pours down his face, dripping off his nose and his chin. This is no longer the face of an angry child, this is the face of a child who is hurt and needing love, not frustration; hugs, not yells. And that softness brings me to my knees, asking the Lord to take away my sinful nature. Let me never hurt my children with my words again.