Love Is Not Easily Angered

This Week's Story

Early in our marriage, Steve didn't know how to put the cap on the toothpaste, his socks in the laundry, or his dishes in the sink. So I decided to give him one more chance. I left work early and made his favorites, lasagna and German chocolate cake. Wedding-gift candles on the table. Barry Manilow on the stereo. Curling iron, mascara, a slinky little something, and a spritz of Calvin Klein Obsession right before he opened the door.

He said "Hi," kissed my cheek, and brushed past me to change out of his work clothes. Then he sat down and dug in without noticing me or the candles.

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's good."

Good. Three hours in the kitchen and I get "good." By dessert, anger took over and served the cake. I yelled, he yelled, we both yelled some more. Then he said something I've never forgotten: "It's not my fault. It's your expectations that got you mad."

I threw my fork into the sink — the same sink he apparently didn't know existed — and banished him to the couch. And then, somewhere between hot and hotter, it hit me. Doggonit. He was right. Nobody had wronged me. My expectations had written a script, and I got furious when he didn't know his lines.

Love that is not easily angered breathes before it reacts. It gets the whole story. It talks instead of erupts. It keeps love in the driver's seat and makes anger ride the bumper.

This Week, Day by Day

My Prayer This Week