But there was that time, in college, when I returned from a trip to find one of my roommates had eaten my cinnamon bread. When I left, it was a fresh loaf of cinnamon goodness from Byerly's, begging to be toasted and slathered with butter. I put it in our dorm's tiny fridge and looked forward to enjoying that treat upon my return. When I got back, it was nothing but two paper-thin end pieces, hastily wrapped in plastic.
I was livid. No. Not livid. I was in a fury, angry as though I'd never been angry before. I stomped around the dorm room, frothing at the mouth. I wrote Post-It notes like, "Eat your own bread pig" and "Aren't you fat enough already?" and put them up around the kitchen. I was out to inflict maximum damage. Be mean to my face, and I'll probably shrug. But eat my cinnamon bread? Oh no. That is war, friend. War.
Thankfully, God let one of my other roommates be home that afternoon. She had never seen me so worked up before. I'm sure she was horrified at my tantrum, but being one of my closest friends, she did her best to calm me down. She followed me around the dorm and took down every nasty note as I hung it, she tried to talk forgiveness in a sing-song voice and, when nothing else worked, she laughed at me. She made a joke out of the whole escapade and she sweetly mimicked my outrage over cinnamon bread. She pointed out the absurdity of the situation without resorting to logic and reason.
And that worked. Because laughter is simultaneously my greatest weakness and greatest strength.
This morning, I woke up to this.
Six inches of wet snow. On April 23. The knock-out blow of a never-ending winter.
It was ridiculous.
And ridiculously beautiful.
I wanted to be angry. We haven't hit 60 degrees yet in 2013. I'm bone-weary of being indoors and wearing coats.
But driving to school surrounded by such extravagant beauty, I felt my indignation melt away like spring snow.
"What do you have to be angry about?" I heard the gentle question in my heart, accompanied by quiet mirth
Well-played God. Well-played.