Grace in the Nick of Time...

Church on Sunday is one of the trying times of the week for my wife and I. It's the "perfect storm" of conditions for our family - long periods of silence (with pews that resonate under little shoes like a bass drum and acoustics that encourage a 16-month old to test his voice) interspersed with people who are not particularly fond of children and a poor audio system for the pastor. While my wife and I both know better and can recite all the parental wisdom from "What to Expect - the Toddler years" by heart, we inevitably reach the breaking point. The breaking point means "disciplining in anger", that worst of parental sins that we must never do and which, in truth, I am guilty of on a regular basis. Every time it happens I go through a cycle of anger, defensiveness, regret, contrition and reconciliation. There are Sundays I'm moving through this cycle so often and so fast you could mount me on a pole and I could work like a fan to keep the room cool. I lay in bed at night imagining my kids laying on a pscyhiatrists couch 20 years from now saying "Church, oh, right, Church was the place where dad yelled at us the most..." Wonderful.

Recently, one of the children was feeling particularly "independent" (in manner very similar to the way that the communists felt "independent" from the Czar's government in Russia in 1917). I had reached the breaking point about 15 minutes into the mass and it was going to be a long ride. I was reduced to sitting in that slightly-leaned-over position that you see in parents of small children, with a look on my face like the coach of a football team that has just lost the Superbowl by 100 points. My wife, on the other hand, was running from one end of the crying room to the other like there were spinning plates at both ends and it was her job to keep them going.

When mass was over, we came out and I "informed" the children that we were not going to get the complementary donut that accompanies good behavior at Church. They were dumbstruck and reacted as if I had told them I was going to leave the family for good. We got into the mini-van and the "leader" of our family insurrection began "the scream" - meaning that high pitch that only children can hit that actually, besides hurting your ears, somehow penetrates into your skull and hurts your brain directly. This went on for a few blocks and I lost it. I pulled the van over and my countenance changed from "pleasant" to "frightening". I said a few choice words.

No effect.

In my anger, I got out of the van and was headed around the back of the vehicle to come in the side door on the passenger side and put the fear of God into this child using any and all of the physical tools at my disposal. I flung the door open and entered. I saw the other kids watching me with scared looks on their face. I took my glasses off for fear of breaking them and I locked eyes with my daughter.

And in the locking of our eyes, in less than one second my heart changed from rage to compassion.

The whole machine shut down. 6'-1", 250 lbs, 20 years of karate, sleep deprivation, frustration, stress. All done. All gone.

I gathered myself for a moment and the countenance went back to "pleasant". My daughter cried harder. I brought my (relatively) gigantic-sized head nose-to-nose with hers and I started saying all these father-type things in a soft father-type voice that were exactly "right" for the moment. I don't even remember what I said, but when I finished, she had stopped crying and the day went better.

I got back out of the van, stared at the ground for a few moments, shook my head, put my glasses on and drove the family home.

What's the point? There is no reasonable way to think that the 180-degree shift of my mood originated in me. The sheer speed at which happened flies in the face of biological and any other science for that matter. And where did I come up with all these things to say? There wasn't any rehearsal and I don't even remember exactly what I said, I just remember when I was done I was certain I had said the right things.

The only explanation, in my opinion, that really fits the situation is that the God somehow intervened.

As I drove home, I reflected on how close I had come to doing something I would really have regretted. I had been praying all along at Church not to get so worked up, I knew I wasn't thinking right but my human weakness got the best of me. When I see how close I can come to blowing it, I have this tendency to want to "play it safe". But the story of the talents in the Gospel came to my mind. I'm not called to play it safe, I'm called to take what God has given me and try to make something more out of it. This involves risk (a point that gets lost in the Gospel telling). The apparent risk for me is that some day I won't do the right thing and I'll wind up with regrets.

I'm learning that Grace comes sometimes in the nick of time. But so far, it's come when I've needed it.