If God had a face, I’d have punched it.
That’s how angry I was.
My anger wasn’t a red hot, raging anger, but a smoldering slow burn, built up over time, corroding my heart and soul, straining our relationship.
I’d lost my mum and then my sister to cancer.
Now it was my turn.
He had to be kidding me?
The injustice. The grief. The unknown future. My kids, what about my sweet children?
Was He deaf and blind to all I’d been through and the damage heading my way.
I was mad. Deep, dark, smoldering mad. Wouldn’t you be?
What should I do with this smoking time bomb of anger?
It’s easy to get mad at God when we’re living a life we didn’t plan and would never choose. He’s the chap that put black holes in the cosmos (why, I have no idea) and those little luminous creatures at the bottom of the oceans (again, I’ve no idea why). He’s the guy who parted the Red Sea and healed the blind and crippled.
Why can’t He heal me?
Why doesn’t He part the waters threatening to drown me?
Over the years I’ve learned to do three things when I’m furious with the man upstairs. It doesn’t change my circumstances, but it does take me off DEFCON 1 anger alert. I’m more able to cope and feel His peace and love. I can keep my head above water when life threatens to drown me.
Here’s what I try and do.
1. Lament (have a good old moan)
I’ve given up hiding my ugly feelings from Him. I reckon He knows them anyway and is big enough to handle it. I learned to let it all hangout like a lamenting psalmist; screaming out blunt questions like How long? Why? Where are you? Unloading my frustrations, laying out my deepest fears for Him to see. It’s not only cathartic to get it off my chest, but surprisingly, my venting doesn’t push Him away, it draws Him closer
I think He likes my honesty.
When we’re truly vulnerable, laying our emotions naked before Him, it’s an invitation He wont refuse.
If we hide our anger He can’t calm its angry rashes or give us the peace we so desperately crave.
