I am an over-reactor.
And I am married, blissfully, to an under-reactor who so often loves me down from the trees I tangle myself in.
I sigh and huff and drum my fingers when the banker working with us stops for a 6-minute phone conversation. My shoulders slump over the keyboard as the currency exchange rate’s fluctuations dictate my emotional posture. I imagine myself delivering a well-articulated speech, filled with strong statements supported by accessible anecdotes, in the middle of our staff room, condemning the failures of private English institutions in Korea. I stare angrily at drivers who seem to have either forgotten or never learned the meaning of a crosswalk. I grind my teeth at night over e-ticket confirmations that never come.
And for what?
All of the erroneous entitlement-turned-annoyance-frustration-self-righteous indignation that works its way deeply into the muscles and tissues of my shoulder blades – what good can it possibly do?
How many times will I learn that He provides for unemployed sparrows, who neither toil nor sigh nor slump their shoulders? How many times will I learn that this life and its exchange rates will be burned like grass tomorrow? That I, at the center of my miniscule universe, am no more than a breath. Oh to remember the Carpenter whose life was one interruption after another from blind people, often groping after the wrong things…asking for sight instead of SIGHT, for water instead of WATER.
7 Comments so far
Leave a comment