The Billy Martin in me

Update: Mission accomplished. That wasn’t so hard.

There is this woman at church. She’s tall. Taller than I am- and that’s something, cause I’m no slouch at 5’9″. She has blond hair. And I’ve got to apologize to her.

It’s a good story I could spin with lots of soap opera like drama. But it doesn’t matter. She provoked me. And I reacted like that old Yankee manager Billy Martin when he disagreed with an umpire. When Martin got a call he didn’t like, he would unleash, get right in the umps face with his anger, kicking dirt in protest. If we had dirt at church, instead of plush carpeting, I would’ve kicked it. If I had been wearing a cap that Christmas Eve two years ago, I would’ve thrown it too. Just like Martin used to do.

So I’ve got to extend this olive branch of peace. Every time I see her in the sanctuary, or standing around during the coffee hour, I feel that nudge. Go over there. Say I’m sorry. Part of me wishes she would apologize to me. I suspect she’s not bothered about it at all.

Then there’s communion. I hold gently the tiny, plastic cup of red juice. Careful with the broken bit of cracker. I try to concentrate on Jesus and what he did and who he is and how his sacrifice is forever life changing. But all I can think of is her, sitting a few rows behind me. I’m not holy at all.

See what happens when you let your anger rule over better sense and judgment ? I hate being wrong, but this is a painful humbling. I told my CBS core leader about it, joking that I should just write her a letter. She thinks it’s a great idea. But can I do it? How can I not do it? Why do I have to be so stubbborn?

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