Lisa Bevere - Be Angry, But Dont Blow It: Maintaining Your Passion Without Losing Your Cool

CONTENTS

L isa Bevere has spent nearly three decades empowering women of all ages to find their identity and purpose. She is a New York Times bestselling author and internationally known speaker. Her books, which include Adamant, Lioness Arising, Girls with Swords, and Without Rival, are in the hands of millions worldwide. Lisa and her husband, John, are the founders of Messenger International, an organization committed to developing uncompromising followers of Christ who transform their world. Messenger International has given away nearly 20 million resources in 106 languages.

T he year was 1988 and John and I were in a heated discussion. So heated, in fact, I had ceased to speak. After clamping my mouth firmly shut for fear of what might come out, I turned my back to John and frantically threw myself into drying the dishes. I could feel my temperature rising as my breathing became deeper and more obvious until it sounded similar to what I had experienced during my labor. I had to stay in control. I couldnt allow the boiling torrent of angry words to gush unrestrained from my lips and drown my husbandno matter how upset I was with him.

John saw my silence from a very different perspective, though. He felt I was serving him the dreaded silent treatment. So he tried to draw me out of it with different forms of persuasion. When these failed he tried provocation.

All of a sudden it worked. I looked down at the plate in my hand. It was an unbreakable salad plate. As if in slow motion, I pivoted like a skilled discus thrower and released the plate. I watched helplessly as it flew through the air, wondering how it had become airborne and wishing I could somehow snatch it back. It glided purposefully and directly for my husbands head. John ducked to one side, escaping what appeared to be potential decapitation, and the plate soared on in an arc. Now it was far beyond the breakfast bar, where John stood in shock, and continued without wavering to span the length of the living room. Could it possibly be gaining speed? I wondered. I knew I couldnt even throw a Frisbee, yet here it was, sailing smoothly through the air without even a wobble.

The sound of breaking glass snapped me back to reality. I stared in disbelief at our picture window, which was now anything but one. It was a frame holding broken glass. I had missed the bottom part that held the screen and shattered the entire upper panel of glass. There was a moment of silence as we both stared at the window.

John was the first to break the silence. I cant believe you threw that plate at me.

I had to agree. I found it hard to believe as well. But I obviously had, and it was done now.

We both moved cautiously toward the broken window. The cool January wind blew in to greet us. Down below our second floor apartment, lying motionless on the grass, was a lone white plate.

Ill go get it, I muttered.

I slipped on my shoes and cautiously opened our door, hoping none of our neighbors had observed my outburst. The gusting Florida wind whipped my hair against my face. I slithered down the stairs, looking both ways, before I crept onto the common lawn. The plate was surrounded by slivers of broken glass from the window above. I glanced up to see if John or anyone else happened to be watching from their windows, but all I saw were reflections of a gray, dim sky. I brushed off the plate and snatched it close as I ran up the stairway between the buildings that now seemed more like a wind tunnel. I felt as if the wind itself were accusing me. It knew the truth, and I welcomed its harsh condemnation. I deserved it.

Again inside I looked at John. I got the plate... its not broken, I offered, holding it up for him to see as if it was some sort of consolation.

You know I am going to tell them the truth, Lisa, he quietly assured me. I am going to have to call maintenance and tell them my wife threw a plate at me, missed, and broke the window.

I nodded passively. All the rage was gone and only shame remained. I know you will, but I am not going to be here when you tell them. Im going to the store, so go ahead and call them now.

The silence was heavy and unnerving in contrast to the loud and heated exchange of words just a few moments before. I was amazed our sweet two-year-old son had slept through all of it. I hurried away from the scene of the crime.

Alone in our car I heaved a heavy sigh of desperation. As I turned the ignition, Christian worship music filled the silence, but it seemed hollow and not for me. I turned it off and let the stillness shroud me again. I didnt want anything to comfort or console me. I wanted harsh reality. I pulled out of the driveway and decided to drive for a while before going to the store. I didnt want to chance a meeting with the maintenance man. What would he think? Here stands the next Lizzy Borden, a future ax murderer.

I decided to entertain shame and guilt as a form of punishment. I began to imagine the absolutely worst possible consequences. Perhaps a newspaper headline would be in order: Youth Pastors Enraged Wife Breaks Window at Local Apartment Complex. Would my husband be fired because of my behavior? Or even worse, what if it extended beyond John and me? What if the media seized the opportunity to denounce the Christian population of Orlando?

I didnt feel I had the right to pray God would somehow intervene on my behalf to cover this whole thing, but perhaps He would on behalf of the Christian community. I began to intercede on their behalf.

Please God, for the sake of my church, the youth group, my husband, and all the Christians in Orlando, please do something. Nothing is too difficult for You. I know I dont deserve this intervention; dont do it for me, do it for everyone else! I pleaded repeatedly.

I was honestly terrified the vivid images of my wild imagination might become painful realities. I imagined my next walk down the aisle of the church. I could almost see the disappointed looks and pointing fingers. I guessed at the whispers of shock as well as the knowing nods of others. I always knew she had a problem with anger... the Spirit showed me, women would assure one another. Perhaps I would need to apologize to the entire congregation. Yet I feared my shame would still remain. How would my new friends look at me? Surely they would turn away from me. I imagined their husbands warning them in the privacy of their bedrooms to stay away from me. After all, the Bible warns us not to associate with an angry manhow much more an angry pastors wife?

Hot tears now streaked my face. I stopped the car and composed myself before I went into the store. Surely there was no escape from what I had done. My husband wouldnt lie, and I didnt want him to. Maybe it wouldnt make the cover of the Orlando paper, but some consequence was inevitable. I resigned myself to this and admitted I deserved to suffer some sort of something. I only hoped I could recover from it when it was all over.

I found it hard to shop. I couldnt even remember what we really needed. I wandered aimlessly through the store. Our food budget was so tight, I did not have the liberty of purchasing food I already had or did not need. I wished I had made a shopping list. I felt like my head was in a fog. I managed to grab the few items I was certain we needed and headed back to the solitude of the car. The sun was setting now. Perhaps I could creep back in under a cover of darkness. I drove home and sat in the car for a while, watching for anyone leaving our apartment building. It was nearly six oclock when I realized the maintenance man was probably off duty.