Sense

At work, we tell our kids to try and understand their anger or their actions. We challenge them to see if there are other factors contributing to their frustrations. “It doesn’t come from nowhere,” we say. Our day, earlier events, stress, anticipation, relationships, a lack of sleep… yet when it comes down to it, those of us who are staff, seeming to have all the answers and insight, are not immune from such things. I sit here and I enumerate all the reasons why I’m in a shitty mood. 14 hours of travel. Drained on socializing. Not enough time with the family. Hating the process of packing for work. 2 hours of sleep last night. Yes, it all makes sense, but sense doesn’t always make things better. I think about the conviction in which I speak my hopes to those kids… my hope that they would learn to express themselves, to feel better after they share their emotions… hopes that they won’t be discouraged at setbacks and learn to accept what is out of their control… hopes that they would wrestle with the hurt, wounds, and disappointments they carry. Those phrases roll of my tongue like sweet honey, and it sounds so good when I say them. It makes so much sense. But my sense pesters me in the back of my mind… questions me vindictively on why I struggle to do that which I preach with such ease.