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"Out of my way, you idiot!" I screamed to the careless driver pulling in front of me. Why do they let such jerks even have a license? I thought. My fingers tensed on the steering wheel. Certain my blood pressure was up, I tried to calm down.

A car sped by me. "Why didn't you just start earlier?" I yelled. A salesman, I was on the road constantly. Heading out for the southwestern states on Monday mornings, I thought about the stupid drivers I'd encounter on my travels. Since I wouldn't be home for two weeks, I had plenty of opportunities to criticize other drivers. My road-rage attitude existed long before it was named.

But one Friday evening was no happy homecoming, for my boss had called me into his office as I was filing my weekly reports.

"George," he said. "I have had one too many reports about your temper. You have insulted the holder of one of our biggest accounts. You know how hard this is for me; I expected you to be one of our outstanding salesmen. But I can't keep you while you continue to have such a negative and defensive attitude."

I felt humiliated; this was not the first time I had lost my temper on a job. I had been fired from several positions because of my "know-it-all" attitude. I was not looking forward to this weekend at home.

How can you leave me?
Being a husband and father was hard for me, too, and in retrospect, I must admit I was a poor excuse for both. I drank too much; I smoked around my children when they were very young; I was unkind and verbally abusive to my wife.

This Friday evening, I roared into the driveway, screeched on the brakes, and slammed the car door behind me. Letting myself in, I threw my coat on the couch and looked around. No wife. No children. No smell of dinner. What was going on?

Hearing sounds, I ran up the stairs, yelling to my wife, "You knew I was coming home tonight. At least you could have had dinner ready when I got here."

Storming into our bedroom, I was startled to see suitcases on the bed, filled with her things. "What are you doing?" I shouted. "And where are the kids?"

My wife was silent as I ranted about how hard I worked and how ungrateful she was.

"Don't you know how difficult life is for me? I work for two weeks, then come home and find this! Sure, I have a few problems, but I have had to be tough to keep some control in this family."

My wife finally spoke. "I have breast cancer, and I don't think you can take care of me. Besides, you are so negative; the cancer center recommends positive support, love and understanding. I sent the kids to Aunt Alma's, and I'm taking the bus tomorrow. But I wanted to be here tonight to tell you."

Stunned, I asked, "Isn't there something I can do to change your mind?" Tears formed in my eyes. I could hardly bear to lose my family and my job in the same day. There would always be another job, but my family …

My heart ached as I thought about her cancer. She looked at me.

"Come to church with me and the children, and learn to trust the Lord. Having cancer will be hard enough unless we all pray for guidance and healing."

Whatever I needed to do to keep my family intact, I would do. I loved them and wanted to do everything I could to help my wife get well.

I began attending church, and started to read the Bible and pray. I gave up drinking and smoking, but I was still selfish, critical, and for the most part, joyless. Angry with myself, I prayed to be a better person.

Three-year-old truth teller
Many years passed. My efforts to change were hit-and-miss. One evening when my wife and I were babysitting, my three-year-old granddaughter came into the kitchen where I was working. Out of the blue, she confronted me. "Poppa—you're mean!"

I didn't think of myself as mean—haughty, perhaps, and a little aloof. Maybe I simply had to rethink my gruff exterior.

But my wife saw it otherwise. "Jill* (our daughter) says Gay is afraid of you—and if you don't change, she's not going to let you see her."

Saddened, I went into Gay's room, and said in the kindest voice I could muster: "Gay, honey, are you really afraid of me?"

With tears running down her cheeks, my granddaughter said, "Oh, Poppa—you're just like the Grinch. Your heart is two sizes too small." She buried her head under the covers and sobbed.

The shock of her words made me think of my life the way others had experienced it. My wife nearly left me because of my temper and negativity; my children tried to tell me about my selfishness as best they could; my employers invested time and money training me but were forced to let me go because I insulted customers.

From that moment, I knew my thoughts and actions had to change if I were to keep my wife and children, any job, any sense of self-worth. But especially I wanted the respect and love of my special angel, little Gay.

Becoming Christ-like was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. My mouth felt raw from biting my tongue. I learned to count to ten when I got mad, and then count again. Negative thoughts were replaced with positive ones.

I asked God for forgiveness, and I did my best to forgive myself. One of the most difficult processes was letting go of my controlling nature. I learned to pray "Thy will be done" and asked to accept and follow God's will in my life. I continued to read the Bible and pray for God's guidance in every word I said—everything I did.

After attending a retreat with my now fully recovered wife and grown son, I sang songs I learned there— "This Little Light of Mine" and "Jesus Loves Me"—to my grandchildren. I learned to meditate and sit quietly waiting for God to speak.

Laughter and a greater sense of joy filled my conversations. When I told Gay how her honesty had changed my life, she said, "Why—don't you know who really did that, Poppa? It was your own special angel."

And so it was.

A Christian Reader original article.

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