Anger, Bitterness, and Optimism

You can tell already that this is going to be a sunny type of post, can’t you? If you read this blog with any regularity you’ll realize that I often have moments where I get “all serious.” This is probably going to be one of them. If you’re not in the mood, I’d skip this post. No sense in delaying any longer, I suppose…

Today, my sister’s former roommate, a woman named Monica called to pray for me. I am currently going through something and, once again, I am gripped by fear, grief and anger. Nothing final has been said to confirm my pervasive sense of hopelessness, but I seem to be resigned to preparing myself for the worst at all times. So today, a reason to fear has surfaced. If I were a positive type of person I would realize that from the surface, things aren’t that bad and I have every reason to believe things will turn out well. Being me, I am launched into my past—a particularly painful experience in my past—and I assume that a similar fate awaits me.

I guess the question I’m essentially dealing with here is what makes me the kind of person who reaches back into pain for a way to deal with the present and not the kind of person who looks ahead and sees hope in all situations. My best friend is one of the most positive people I know. She is always seeing ways for things to go well or inevitably work themselves out. She has a gift of optimism coupled with intelligence. In my particular case, I feel I can not be optimistic and realistic. Most people turn away from ugly things, and avoid empathy because, quite frankly, it takes time and it hurts to feel what others feel. I’m not that different myself, I often change the channel when NPR talks about the newly fallen Marines in Iraq—yes, I’m an ass. Who isn’t? But, I think when it comes to self-indulgent pity, I excel. The need to look towards the sun never occurs to me as I march dutifully into the mire.

So Monica called me. She had about ten other women with her there to pray for me also—this is her ministry; she’s like a Prayer SEAL. On a conference call with several women maybe a thousand miles from me, I began to feel exorcised. They knew all my bull before I could speak it. In her words, “God revealed your anger to us, he showed us how deeply you grieve and the confusion you feel about His ways.” I was dumbstruck. How could they know what I so desperately try to hide? Now, an hour later, I’m still scared and I don’t know what that means.
I have to face this fear today and I don’t know what to do. Do I envision the best and imagine the wondrous lightening of my heart, or do I brace myself for yet another blow?