Tuesday, January 28, 2020

TAMING YOUR ANGER


TAMING YOUR ANGER


By Ada Nicholson Brownell


A crying infant suddenly is grasped by the ankles and hurled against the wall.  A teen-ager kills his parents, then marches into a school and shoots several students and a teacher.  A mother walks out on the most important thing in her life—her family.

Angry people are said to be mad.  Perhaps that’s appropriate, because anger sometimes causes people to act insane.

Anger can consume your happiness, rob your joy, affect your health, end relationships, mangle your faith and may even lead to murder.

When I was a child, I’d get so angry with my older brother’s teasing I’d start swinging at him. I was a scrawny freckled-faced redhead and two years younger, so no wonder he laughed hysterically as he held me at arm’s length with his hand on my forehead while I swung into the air.

After I married and had five children, I grew weary of going to bed feeling guilty about my angry outbursts that day.  I asked forgiveness from God, my husband and my children.  About that time I read Henry Drummond’s book, “The Greatest Thing in the World.”[1] In his comment on” love is not easily provoked” (1 Corinthians 13:5), he says, “No form of vice, not worldliness, not greed of gold, not drunkenness itself, does more to unchristianize society than evil temper.  For embittering life, for breaking up communities, for destroying the most sacred relationships, for devastating homes, for withering up men and women, for taking the bloom of childhood, in short, for sheer gratuitous misery-producing power this influence stands alone.

Here are 10 ways to help control inappropriate responses to anger compiled from my experience, research and an interview with the late Derrald Vaughn, Ph.D., a psychologist, educator and former pastor:

1.     Realize anger is one of the emotions God gave you and is not a sin in itself.

“We all have anger,” said Vaughn, “but most of us don’t lose control.”

If you have something to be upset about, you can communicate it and probably should before the problem gets worse, Vaughn noted. For instance, this helps spouses with serious problems get into counseling and usually at least one of them will be helped.

2.     Acknowledge that being hot-blooded, a redhead or someone who needs to vent feelings are not plausible excuses for out-of-control outbursts.

3.     Realize actions are controlled by the will, so you can decide to control anger’s behavior. You can stop and pray for help. Sometimes anger should be vented to God alone. Or you can write a letter and destroy it.  You can take anger out by doing housework or washing the car.

4.     Decide what is important to be angry about.  Don’t bother with spilled milk, scratched furniture, dented cars or money. With children get upset when they rebel, disobey, lie or break any other of the Ten Commandments. Get riled when a child does things that will hurt him or someone else.

To find appropriate places for anger, study the Bible and pray for wisdom.

5.     Use anger constructively, but accept what can’t be changed. We must not take matters into our own hands, however. “Bombing an abortion clinic is inappropriate use of anger because it breaks the same commandment abortionists are breaking,” Vaughn said. “It is not righteous indignation.”

Anger at Satan’s work should take us to our knees to intercede for family, friends, neighbors and nations; cause us to volunteer to teach Christian education, visit the sick, love the broken, feed the hungry; vote and speak out on moral matters.

6.     Humble yourself and listen to other people.  Much anger is caused by pride—you are always right, you know better than anyone.

7.     Ask forgiveness from those offended by your angry outbursts.

“Sometimes we use anger inappropriately because we are rewarded for it temporarily,” Vaughn said. “However, it doesn’t solve problems in the long run.  When we ask forgiveness, that’s punishment and becomes a deterrent.

8.     Forgive those who cause anger.

9.     Avoid substances that unleash anger and investigate other causes.

Alcohol affects inhibitory pathways in the brain, sometimes causing angry outbursts, violence and even murder. Research has found drinking intoxicating beverages is the number one predictor of physical and sexual abuse.

Grief also could be involved because anger is a stage of the grieving process for any loss.

10. Cultivate the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 6:22-23). When you’re filled with love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness and temperance, there’s little room for inappropriate anger.



 What the Bible Says About Anger

·       “A soft answer turns away wrath; but grievous words sir up anger” (Proverbs 15:11).

·       “Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God (James 1:19,20).

·       “Be ye angry, and sin not; let not the sun go down upon your wrath.  Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you with all malice, and be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you” (Ephesians 4:26-31-32).

·       “He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city” (Proverbs 16:32).

·       “Anger resteth in the bosom of fools” (Ecclesiastes 7-9).

·       “Provoke not your children to wrath; but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord” (Ephesians 6:4).

·       “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).

The Pentecostal Evangel April 11, 1999

Reprinted in the Book, 50 Tough Questions, Gospel Publishing House, Springfield, MO 65802, 2002.











[1] Westwood, New Jersey, Fleming H. Revell Co.

Friday, January 3, 2020


Jan. 3 Guest Blog Donna Schlachter





Double Jeopardy – Lessons learned – with Giveaway

By Donna Schlachter

Life is a series of lessons learned. Some come easy, like learning to like ice cream. Others come more harshly, like learning to trust again once your heart is broken. Or figuring out how to tie your shoes.

Lessons learned always require change, and that always requires a decision. Many times folks might try to say, “I messed up because of one bad choice.” But that isn’t true. A series of bad choices, each one more serious and life-impacting than the previous, brings us to our “bad end.”

Or our “good outcome.”

In Double Jeopardy, Becky and Zeke learn some important life lessons:

  1. Trust the person more than the lies in your head: as with most romances, both characters like the other person, but they get their communication mixed up several times and begin to distrust each other. But if we really stop and remember the good in the other person, the lies will fade away.
  2. Be willing to forgive quickly: We all mess up. And Becky and Zeke are no different. They are imperfect. But being willing to forgive quickly allows doors of reconciliation to be opened.
  3. Talk it out: Miscommunication has killed more relationships than anything else. Whether the fault lies in misremembering the words, misunderstanding their meaning and context, or simply words misspoken, just like Becky and Zeke, we must be willing to apologize and ask for clarification.

It’s never too soon to establish a firm foundation for an upcoming marriage, and it’s never too late to repair cracks in the foundations of our existing relationships.

I hope you enjoy this excerpt. Keep reading to see how you can enter to win a free ebook.

Excerpt:



Double Jeopardy

Chapter 1

1880 Silver Valley, Colorado



Dead. Dead as her dreams and her hopes.

Dead as a doornail, as her mother would say.

Just thinking about the woman drove a steel rod through Becky Campbell’s slumping back. Perched on a chair in the sheriff’s office, she drew a deep breath, lifted her shoulders, and raised her chin a notch. She would not be like the woman who birthed her. Pretty and pampered. A silly socialite finding nothing better to do with her days than tea with the mayor’s spinster daughter or bridge with the banker’s wife.

No, she’d much rather be like her father. Adventuresome. Charismatic. Always on the lookout for the next big thing.

Now her breath came in a shudder, and down went her shoulders again. She tied her fingers into knots before looking up at the grizzled lawman across the desk from her. “There’s no chance there’s been a mistake in identification, is there?”

He slid open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a pocket watch, a lapel pin, and a fountain pen, which he pushed across the desk to her. “He was pretty well-known around here. I’m really sorry, miss.”

Becky picked up the timepiece and flicked open the cover. Inside was a photograph of her family, taken about ten years earlier when she was a mere child of eight and Father stayed around long enough to sit still for the portrait. Her mother, petite and somber, and she, all ringlets and ribbons. She rubbed a finger across the engraving. To R. Love M. Always.

Yes, this was his.

And the lapel pin, a tiny silver basket designed to hold a sprig of baby’s breath or a miniature rosebud—a wedding gift from her mother twenty years before.

She looked up at the sheriff, tears blurring her vision. “And his ring?”

The lawman shook his head. “No ring. Not on his body or in his shack.”

“But he always wore it. Never took it off.”

He shrugged. “Maybe he lost it. Or sold it.”

“I doubt he’d do either. My mother gave it to him when I was born.”

She peered at him. Had he stolen her father’s ring?

Or maybe Sheriff Freemont was correct. Maybe something as important as her birth hadn’t meant much to her father. Maybe she didn’t either. Was that why he left?

Because surely his absences couldn’t be explained by any rift between her parents.

Although, what Matilda Applewhite saw in Robert Campbell—Robbie to his friends and family—Becky had never understood. Her mother, who ran in the same circles as the Rockefellers and the Astors, with presidents and admirals—yet much to the consternation of her family, chose a ne’er-do-well like Becky’s father.

Becky set the two items side by side on the scarred wooden desk, next to the fountain pen. The same one he’d used to write his letters to her. Signing them, Give your mother all my love too. Your devoted father. She needed no more information. No more proof.

Dead.

Not what she hoped for when she left New York a month prior, against her mother’s wishes, with little else to direct her steps than a ticket to Silver Valley and her father’s last letter. Written a year before, but as full of life, promises, hopes, and wishes as ever.

She collected the only three material evidences of her father’s existence and dropped them into her reticule then stood. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff. I appreciate my father’s death must be a difficult business for you.”

He stood and dipped his head. “Yes, miss.”

“Do you know how he died?”

He cleared his throat, not meeting her gaze. “Still investigatin’, miss. Lots of things to look into.”

She bit back a groan. Unlike in the city, where manpower and resources seemed limitless, out here, there was just the sheriff and sometimes a deputy. “Thank you again. Please keep me updated.” She turned to leave. “Where is he buried?”

“Over by the church. Just ask the preacher. He can show you.”

Not like she was in any rush to see her father’s final resting place. She stepped outside and scanned the street. Surely the man who was more gypsy than family man would hate to think of his physical body buried beneath the dust of any one place.

A morose sense of humor invaded her. At least it was a way to get him to stay in one place longer than it took to eat a meal.

Sheriff Fremont joined her on the front step. “You’ll likely be returning home now, I ’spect.”

She looked up past his dimpled chin, his bushy mustache, his aquiline nose, into eyes as dark as coal. “No, sir. I have no plans to return.”

“What will you do?”

“Do?”

She blinked several times as she pondered the question, which was a very good one indeed. She’d not thought beyond the ache building in her bosom for the father she’d never see again. At least when he went off on yet another adventure, she had the unspoken promise of his return at some point, in the distant future. And always a letter. Or a postcard. Never many words on either, but confirmation he was alive and she was still important to him.

At least, important enough to sit a few minutes and pen a few words.

She stared at the dusty mining town. More tents than wooden structures. More mules than horses. More assay offices than churches.

Two men tumbled onto the boardwalk opposite her, rolled down the two steps to the street level, and lay prone in the dirt littered with horse apples. The barkeep, a barrel-chested man, his formerly white apron now stained beyond redemption and a dingy cloth slung over his arm, burst through the swinging doors. “And don’t come back here. We don’t need the likes of you in here bothering our customers.”

The man turned on his heel and disappeared back into the saloon. Within ten seconds, the tinny notes of a piano filtered to her ears.

The two in the street lay still.

Had he killed them?

A pack of boys ran from a nearby alley, grabbed a hat from one the men’s heads, and raced down the street, jabbering and hollering like their britches were on fire. Three mongrels loped after them, tongues lolling and tails held high.

She turned back to the sheriff. “Is there a decent boarding house in town?”

One eye squinted as he peered at her for a long moment before nodding slowly. “So, you’re going to stay?”

“I have no reason to return.”

She glanced at the two men in the street. One climbed to his feet, swaying unsteadily, while the other puked into the dust without even lifting his head. The acrid odor wafted across to her, and she wrinkled her nose, breathing through her mouth. Until the smell coated her tongue. Then she snapped her mouth shut.

Maybe this wasn’t the town for her …

No. She would never give her mother opportunity to say I told you so.

“Well, we got us a hotel above the saloon over yonder, and just about every drinking establishment in town rents out rooms, but I wouldn’t recommend those places. Mrs. Hicks over at number fourteen Front Street rents out a few rooms in her house. Tell her I sent you.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.” She took a couple of steps, her drawstring bag banging against her thigh. “I’ll also need directions to my father’s claim so I can get that transferred into my name. As his next of kin.”

“You’ll need to check with the Land and Assay Office, two doors up from the mercantile. But I don’t know what kind of a title he bought. Some can be transferred, but most who come out here can’t think past their next pay lode, so they don’t spend the money to buy that kind.”

She tipped her head. “You mean I might need to buy my own father’s property?”

He shrugged. “Not that I know much, but that’s what I’ve heard. I wish you luck, miss. You’ll need it if you plan to stay here.” He tipped his hat to her before closing his door.

Becky drew in a breath of the warm May afternoon then released it in a sigh. First the cost of the train ticket, then her meals and occasional hotel rooms along the way. And now this. Was there no end to the ways her dwindling cache of gold coins could disappear like snow in July?

First things first—a proper place to stay tonight. She picked up her carpetbag waiting on the bench outside the sheriff’s office and walked in the direction the lawman had indicated toward the home of Mrs. Hicks. Her heels beat a rhythm like a drum corps in a parade. She nodded to women and couples she passed but averted her eyes from the solitary men.

And there were many. Of all sizes and shapes, ages, and deportment. Several ogled her from the chairs they occupied outside the six—no, seven—saloons she passed, and that was only on her side of the street. A lone barber lounged in one of his three chairs, not a customer in sight, testifying to the fact that the men hereabouts were more interested in cards, booze, and loose women than in personal hygiene.

A fact she confirmed when one lout stood his ground and refused to let her pass. Cheap perfume, rotgut whiskey, and sweat mingled to create an odor that made her eyes water.

Another man stepped up behind the drunk. “Micky, are you troubling this young lady?”

Micky swayed in place, twisting the brim of his hat in gnarled fingers. “She one of your flock?”

“Doesn’t matter. Apologize and move on.”

The drunk tipped his hat to her in apology and stepped back against the building, allowing her to continue. The preacher, his collar white against the severe black suit, nodded, and she acknowledged his courtesy with a tiny smile. “Thank you. Reverend?”

The clergyman dipped his head. “Obermeyer, Pastor Obermeyer.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Becky Campbell.”

He blinked a couple of times then his brow raised. “Oh, you’re—”

“Yes. Robbie Campbell’s daughter.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The sheriff told me you could show me where my father is buried.”

He held her hand and sandwiched it between his own. “Please accept my condolences on your loss, Miss Campbell.”

“Thank you.” That now too-familiar ache swelled in her bosom. Would it never ease? “If I may call on you another time? I’m off to find lodging.”

He tipped his head to one side. “Oh, you’re staying?”

Why did everybody think that because her father was dead, she would leave?

Or was this wishful thinking on their part?

If so, why?

She nodded. “I am.”

He shook himself like a hound dog awakening from a nap. Had he stretched and yawned, she would not have been surprised. “Good. Good.” He pointed down the street. “The church is there. The parsonage is the tiny house behind. I’m in my study most days. Come any time.” He tipped his hat. “Perhaps I’ll see you in church tomorrow?”

“We shall see. Thank you for rescuing me from that horrible man.”

His shoulders slumped. “So many have too much time and money on their hands.” He quirked his chin toward the others walking along the street. “Many work all week then come into town and spend it on a Saturday, only to go back and repeat the same cycle next week.”

Sounded like a hopeless cycle. But what could she do about it? Nothing. If she wanted to make it on her own here, she had her work cut out to stay out of the poorhouse. She surely wouldn’t ask her rich-as-Midas mother for assistance. Maybe once she got on her feet … “Thank you again. Good day.”

She gripped her carpetbag and continued on her way, pleased that at least two men in this town—the sheriff and the parson—were raised by genteel women. She should count herself lucky she’d met both today. Having even one on her side might come in handy at some point. And having two—well, that was just downright serendipitous.

Three blocks through the business section, then a right for two blocks, and she soon found the house she sought. Narrow but well-kept flower gardens lined both sides of the walkway. She unlatched the gate, headed for the door, and knocked. Her gloved hands sweating, she longed for a cool drink of lemonade or sweet tea. As she raised her hand to knock again, the door swung open and a tall, thin woman of indeterminate age peered down at her.

Becky tossed her a smile and introduced herself. “The sheriff said you might have a room for rent?”

“How long?”

“I’m not certain. I plan to stay until I settle my father’s estate, at least. Possibly longer.”

The stern look on the woman’s face eased. “Sorry for your troubles. Four dollars a week including meals.” She peered past Becky. “And I only take respectable women. No children. No men. My name is Joan Hicks.”

While the amount seemed high, Becky had little choice. “My name is Becky Campbell.”

“Oh, you’d be—”

Becky sighed. Either her father was famous, or infamous. The former, she hoped. “Yes. His daughter. And yes, I’m staying in town until I get his claim sorted out.”

The wrinkles around the landlady’s eyes deepened, and her mouth lifted in a smile. “Actually, my next question was if you want dinner tonight?”

“I would. Thank you. What time?”

“Dinner’s at five. Perhaps you’d like to see your room and freshen up.”

She was going to like this obviously kindly, no-nonsense woman. So unlike her own mother. “Thank you.”

The interior of the house was dark but cool, and Becky followed Mrs. Hicks up two flights of stairs to one of three doors that opened off the top landing. The landlady stood aside and held out her hand, palm up. “Payment due in advance. Pot roast for dinner.”

Becky dug the four coins from her reticule and handed them over. “Thank you.”

“No keys for any of the rooms. I got the right to inspect the room with an hour’s notice. No cooking or smoking in the rooms. Privy is out the back door.”

Becky swallowed back a lump of disappointment. She’d expected indoor plumbing, just as she enjoyed in New York, but the modern conveniences hadn’t made their way this far west.

Or at least, not to this house in Silver Valley.

She entered what would be her home for at least the next week, longer if she could figure out how to make her remaining money stretch further. She set her bag on a dressing table, and then she closed the door. When she sank onto the bed, the springs creaked beneath her weight. She sighed.

A pang of—of what? Homesickness? Missing her father? Wishing things were different?—caught her off guard, spreading through her like a flooding river, threatening to wash away all hope. So much for her dreams of prospecting with her father in the mountains of Colorado. Of catching up on all the years they’d missed.

Rather, that she had missed.

She doubted her father had lacked any adventures or excitement.

His life had been so different from her own.

She dumped the contents of her drawstring bag onto the bed and sorted through them. Sixty-three dollars which, along with the hundred or so in her carpetbag, should tide her over for a while. If she didn’t have to buy her father’s claim. If she didn’t have to pay top dollar for every single thing she needed.

Because if there was one thing still alive in her, it was the desire to understand her father. To understand what drove him to leave the comforts of home and travel to this remote place. Was it the lure of silver? Was he simply tired of his refined life? Of his wife?

Of her?



I will randomly draw one name from all who leave a comment for a free ebook of Double Jeopardy.



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Double Jeopardy is available at https://shoplpc.com/double-jeopardy/ Amazon.com, and fine booksellers in your area.



About Donna:

Donna lives in Denver with husband Patrick. As a hybrid author, she writes historical suspense under her own name, and contemporary suspense under her alter ego of Leeann Betts, and has been published more than 30 times in novellas and full-length novels. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Writers on the Rock, Sisters In Crime, and Christian Authors Network; facilitates a critique group; and teaches writing classes online and in person. Donna also ghostwrites, edits, and judges in writing contests. She loves history and research, and travels extensively for both. Donna is represented by Terrie Wolf of AKA Literary Management.


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