FUMING

I've never been in a fight. Not once in my life. But one afternoon during my sophomore year of college, I came remarkably close to committing an act of vehicular violence.

It started with a parking space.

That year, the university built a new cafeteria on the bottom floor of my dorm. The hall was open and modern, and I loved the chicken parmesan and beef stir fry. But the convenience came at a cost. By dinner time, finding a spot to park had become a competitive sport, and I was losing. 

The lot had four one-way aisles, and when I'd come home from my last class, I'd have to snake back and forth through the lot until I was lucky enough to be the one in exactly the right place for a car to back out, and I'd pull into their newly empty spot.

One day after class, I saw someone with keys in his hand leaving the courtyard, and I followed him to his car. I normally drove a modern muscle car, but that day, I was driving our family's work truck. It was a 1982 K5 Blazer with a 6.2L diesel, a three-inch lift, and enormous all-terrain tires. It was strong enough to pull a house. 

I sat idling while he backed out into the aisle, ready to pull forward and leave. The spot was mine. But, apparently, I wasn't the only one who noticed the guy leaving. A zippy little car came speeding the wrong way up the aisle and stopped nose-to-nose with him. He had nowhere to go but backward. He reversed until his bumper was nearly touching mine, and the little car whipped in front of him into the empty space. I was furious. And to make matters worse, four rowdy guys piled out, laughing and cutting up. As they walked past my truck, they offered a few friendly gestures, each involving a very specific finger.

So what I did was this. I took a deep breath, patiently found another spot, walked into the cafeteria, found the guys and offered to refill their drinks. I wanted to show them the kindness of Christ. 

Of course that's not what I did.

As the big motor sat idling, spitting diesel fumes out behind the truck, I was fuming too. I'm proud to say that I resisted the temptation to ram their car through the brick wall it was parked against, making it a permanent addition to the building. I found another parking space, ate dinner, and made sure to avoid the guys from the car.

Almost thirty years later, I still recognize the feeling. Recently, I was playing Catan with my wife and boys. For certain plays, our family has fun little narrations we always do. When we build a settlement, we say “settle me” in a low, slow, swallowed Severus Snape tone. When we build a city, we sing “Cityyyyyy” in a high minor pentatonic blues run. I was a move away from settling on the wheat port when Amos took my space. So I built a city somewhere else. I didn't sing the run. Kelly asked about it.

I've spent most of my life learning to keep my anger under control. And mostly, I have. At least, I've kept it from making a spectacular appearance. But anger has a way of finding the cracks. It sometimes comes out in a sharp word, a harsh look, a little sulking. Nothing big enough to knock down a brick wall. Just enough to make the people around me wish I'd found somewhere else to park.