Temper Tantrums in E major

I gaze at the goldenrod curtain and burnished pink walls on the platform and take in the off-tune singing and sea of plaid shirts. The plaid shirts are the result of kind and thoughtful donations by people who apparently don’t realize how painful a mass collection of plaid shirts can be on the eyes. I desperately hope the sparse arrangement of fans will chase away the sleepiness that threatens to drag me under. A violent tug of war between my English thoughts and the Spanish sermon ensues, and then another tugging begins. His little arms surge upward and before I have time to arrange myself in a ladylike manner, he’s on my lap.

Elias, 7, is my youngest boy. He’s almost permanently attached to my hip. . . leg. . . arm. . . neck. For some reason I have become a huge part of his life. He calls me Mami and is constantly begging for hugs and kisses. The problem is he’s also very, very, very disobedient. I have tried so many disciplinary tactics with him, but nothing seems to work. There are the early morning battles to wake up and shower, struggles to eat vegetables and finish what’s on his plate, and church. Oh, church.

It often starts out quite peacefully. He settles himself on my lap to draw and rearrange my hair, but then the long service begins and I dread the scene I know will unfold at any time. We make it through song service and prayer, but his impatience grows and he rattles the green plastic chairs. I shoot our neighbors embarrassed glances, the kind mothers give annoyed customers in the check-out line as their children whine for candy. I sternly tell him if he continues, I will take him outside. He gets angry and crawls under some chairs and throws papers on the floors. I’m stuck. If I talk to him again, I’m enforcing his negative behavior and he’s only doing it because he knows it will get my attention. He comes back to the row in front of me and pushes a little girl and another chair. I see that action must be taken and I swoop in like a hawk descending on its prey and swiftly walk outside. I’ve done this before and I’m quite prepared to do it again. I vaguely remember similar scenarios involving my father and I. There’s only one problem. *Patrick. He’s sitting in the back on one of the detestable green chairs watching me drag Elias out. Great, he’s going to come meddle. I inwardly grown. He’s quite good at it. In fact, he often meddles with my disciplinary tactics, and I struggle to remain silent while he butts in, assuming I’m not handling the situation well. I decide to take Elias right outside the doors, hoping that if Patrick can see him and me, he won’t feel the need to come investigate. I plop down and stare into Elias’ eyes. You know why I brought you out Elias? He looks down at his hands. Elias, you know that’s not how we behave in church. I begin to pray with him, despite his efforts to shrug me off. I tell him we’ll sit here until he’s ready to go back in. I give him five minutes. I tell him I’m ready and proceed to bring him along. He shakes his head. Elias, I’m going to count to five. If you’re not ready on five, I’m going to spank you. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. . . cuatro y media. . . cinco. I spank him twice and wait for the soft crying to ensue. It’s like clockwork. I take him on my lap and begin to comfort him. It would probably have taken about one more minute for him to calm down and be ready to go back in. . .

And then, the sun ceases to shine. Patrick’s familiar shadow looms above us and I glance up angrily. He doesn’t want to go back into church? I explain the situation briefly and before I have a chance to finish my spiel, he drags him off my lap and leads him away. I fume. Meddler, I want to scream. I sit there and a few angry tears squeeze their way out. I walk back into church knowing there’s no way I’ll glean anything from the sermon now. Anger boils in my veins. It’s easy for him to discipline him, he only deals with him once a week. Try getting him up in the morning or making him brush his teeth. Try having him bang on your door while you’re trying to take a nap. Try making him do his chores or finishing his food. Try LIVING with him. I want to say all this while waving my freckled fist. Church ends and I’m about to sulk out, but before I can escape, Patrick is back with Elias. He sits down and tells Elias to apologize, coddling and coaxing him. Minutes tick by and I arrange my face in a pensive pout. People are leaving and the church is almost empty. I start to get up and tell Patrick Elias can apologize before lunch. Wait, he’s almost ready, he pleads. I sit down, glaring. Two more minutes pass and Elias looks around with no intention of apologizing. Honestly, I want an apology from Patrick, not from Elias. I grow impatient. Finally, Elias tumbles out an apology and Patrick shoots me a triumphant grimace. Yeah, great work. You got a kid to apologize after an hour, do you want a cookie? Did you make the atomic bomb too or invent the Internet? I charge out to the bus and get on.

I know I sound incredibly rude. I sound like a person you wouldn’t want working as a student missionary. In fact, I don’t even sound like a Christian. Over the course of writing this blog I hoped some magical lesson would unveil itself, yet none has. I’ve had a rough week. I had a difficult and embarrassing talk with one of the staff, which resulted in me crying in front of her and some of the kids. I got food poisoning and spent Thursday afternoon and night throwing up. And at church, where I thought I might find myself close to God again, I had another human moment. Oh, the joy of human moments. I bask in them daily here.

I am afraid I have a long way to go in my growth as a Christian. Sometimes I’m like Elias. I desire to be so close to God, to give him hugs and kisses and bang on His door until He answers, but when He doesn’t answer or He scolds me, I’m tempted to throw chairs around and make a raucous. I decided to reread one of my favorite Bible verses.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.Psalm 73:26

This year I’m being tested. My flesh and my heart have failed me, and I need to learn to lean on my Father’s strength and not my own. My own cries out, my own gossips and is easily angered, but His, His is perfect. I wanted to give Patrick a piece of my mind, and probably would have if I’d had a chance. I want to yell at the kids and stomp my feet when the staff just don’t get it, it being my point of view. I want to jump on a plane and fly home. I want an easy button.

The journey continues. . .

*Name changed for privacy