There are days when I am more like the two and three year olds I once taught in Sunday School. I don't stamp my foot. I don't throw myself on the floor and holler. Couldn't get up off the floor anyway so having to ask for help would surely spoil the drama.
What I need is an app created just for me, a mood predictor on my cell phone. It would shift to storm coming, take shelter, give me time before the storm sweeps me up into a crying spell or one of my shouting sessions. The thing is I seldom see the outburst coming. The sun is shining, the morning coffee is perfect, my faithful spouse sets a gluten free bagel before me, I spoon the last berry mix into my mouth, and abandon manners and common sense. I over react to a simple comment. I am appalled at my own behavior.
Later, in solitude I shift from anger over something small to tears over large issues. That happened today. And as I read Scripture and my devotions, I found a verse to repeat and turn into prayer. Psalm 90:12 (ESV) So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.
I need a heart of wisdom. I am keenly aware that my days are numbered and that I am at an age where that number is dwindling. Raised over a funeral home, the daughter of a funeral director, across the street from the Catholic and Methodist churches, I stood at our living room window and watched caskets carried out, heard the tears of mourners. I know our days are numbered. That is true for all of us.
But I waste precious minutes in fruitless anger over things I cannot change, did not cause, cannot fix. And I holler over the small things because if I let the anger out over the big things, I might dissolve and risk drowning in an ocean of tears. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t. I whisper that to God as I ask him to grow wisdom in my heart.