Anger or sadness? I wonder why people choose anger?

The Bible doesn't condemn anger.  Jesus got angry in the temple.  God gets angry.  It's not a bad emotion in itself, but it is also possible -- even likely -- to sin when you are angry. 

 

In contrast, Jesus says those that mourn are blessed. 

 

So when life smacks me in the face, when circumstances get hard, why do I choose anger instead of sadness? 

 

Anger makes me feel strong. 
Sadness makes me feel weak.

 

Anger energizes.
Sadness is still. 

 

Anger makes me feel like the issues are clear.
Sadness often comes with confusion.

 

Anger feels there is a solution.
Sadness leads me to admit my inability to find solutions.

 

Anger is self-protective.
Sadness makes me feel vulnerable.

 

The audience applauds anger.  Think of the last rousing speech you heard.
Sadness invokes an awkward silence. 

 

Anger affixes the problem firmly onto others.
Sadness leaves me open to consider my own participation in the problem.

 

Anger demands justice.
Sadness knows that what we really need is mercy.

 

Anger doesn't feel like it hurts me.
Sadness hurts me, it hurts badly.

 

Most people don't say they want to be angry.  It doesn't feel like a choice to be angry.  Instead we say the other person, situation, issue caused my anger!

 

But,

 

I wonder if the real reason people are angry is that the alternative is sadness, and that would just plain hurt too much.

 

What is the end of the race like exactly?

Many of you know that in April I signed up for a century bike challenge as a way to deal with my grief about losing my dad and hopefully do some good in the process.  The long-awaited ride was yesterday.

From time to time, I have thought of this ride as a metaphor for life.  The 100 mile bike ride was my race to celebrate dad's 81-year race.  The struggle to prepare and finish my bike ride reminded me of the struggles of life and death and finishing well.

It was no less true yesterday.  At about mile 70, I wanted to be done.  When I signed up for this particular ride (Escape New York), a biker friend of mine said, "Are you crazy? You shouldn't sign up for that one for your first century ride.  It has unbelievable hills on it.  One place you go up a hill for ten miles." 

Of course, I didn't listen, but yesterday I was starting to think she was right. 

From about mile 70 to 90, I thought a lot about dad's last years.  The last leg of a journey is not easy. Getting old and dying is not for the faint of heart. Even though one "does everything right," there is physical pain to deal with, many losses of relationships because many of your friends and family members die, and then there is the loss of daily independence and dignity.  Add all this to the waves of doubt and questions that the enemy sends along. Dad's last years were rich but it was really, really hard for him, and I don't think his struggle was particularly unique.  It is just plain hard to finish a race.

Four miles from the end of my ride, there was the Walnut Climb, 302 total vertical feet to be exact, 171 of it with no leveling out at all.  In that moment, I experienced a glimpse of what dad's last months were like.  It takes everything you have to finish your race.

At the top of the hill I trudged forward, a little bleary-eyed. 

Then it happened.  I turned a corner and emerged from the evening shadows into a scene that is forever etched in my memory.  I think pain has a way of making one more receptive to beauty because the scene before me was among the most beautiful I have ever seen.

The ground gently dropped away from under my feet until I was 200 feet above the banks of the Hudson river. The river -- more like a lake at this point -- was dotted with various peaceful boats and a lazy barge.  The setting sun turned the Manhattan buildings on the other side into a warm golden color. The cool ocean breeze was a refreshing contrast to the sticky humidity of the long day. The towering arches of the GW Bridge looked to me like giant gates welcoming me home, and I wondered if this is what it was like for dad.  Welcome home, thy good and faithful servant.  Your race is done.

As tears streamed down my face, somewhere in the deepest part of me I made a vow, "I will finish my race" -- even if it is hard, even if it takes more tenacity than I have, even if it takes 40 more years, even if I suffer, I will finish my race having spent all my energy for things that matter. 

As the saying goes, "Its not easy, but its worth it." 

  

Here are a few pics attempting to capture the grandeur of what I saw.

 

 

Here's the card my wife gave me after it was all over.