Mother was disappointed in me and I knew it, but all I could think of was my poor wardrobe and my need for acceptance. Instead of coming directly home after school and doing my homework, I played basketball. Sometimes I stayed out until ten o’clock, and a few times until eleven. When I came home I knew what to expect, and I prepared myself to endure it.
“Bennie, can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? It’s more than just disappointing me. You’re going to ruin your life staying out all hours and begging for nothing but fine clothes.”
“I’m not ruining my life,” I insisted, because I didn’t want to listen. I couldn’t have heard anything because my immature mind focused on being like everybody else.
“I’ve been proud of you, Bennie,” she would say. “You’ve worked hard. Don’t lose all of that now.”
“I’ll keep on doing all right,” I’d snap back. “I’ll be OK. Haven’t I been bringing home good grades?”
She couldn’t argue with me on that issue, but I know she worried. “All right, son,” she finally told me.
Then, after weeks of my pleading for new clothes, Mother said the words I wanted to hear. “I’ll try to get some of those fancy clothes for you. If that’s what it takes to make you happy, you’ll have them.”
“They’ll make me happy,” I said. “They will.”
It’s hard for me to believe how insensitive I was back then. Without thinking about her needs, I let Mother go without to buy me clothes that would help me dress like the in-crowd. But I never had enough. Now I realize that no matter how many Italian shirts, leather jackets, or alligator shoes she bought, they would never have been enough.
My grades dropped. I went from the top of the class to being a C student. Even worse, achieving only average grades didn’t bother me because I was part of the in-group. I hung out with the popular guys. They invited me to their parties and jam sessions. And fun—I was having more fun than I’d ever had in my life because I was one of the guys.
I just wasn’t very happy.
I had strayed from the important and basic values in my life. To explain that statement, I have to go back to my mother again and tell you about a visit from Mary Thomas.
When my mother was in the hospital to deliver me, she had her first contact with Seventh-day Adventists. Mary Thomas was visiting in the hospital and started talking to her about Jesus Christ. Mother listened politely but had little interest in what she had to say.
Later, as I’ve already mentioned, Mother was so emotionally hurt that she checked herself into a mental hospital. At one point, she seriously considered committing suicide by saving up her daily medication and taking all the pills at once. Then one afternoon a woman visited my mother in the hospital. She had met the woman once before—Mary Thomas.
This quiet but zealous woman began talking to her about God. That in itself was nothing new. From the time she was a little girl in Tennessee, Mother had heard about God. Yet Mary Thomas approached religion differently. She didn’t try to force anything on Mother or tell her how sinful she was. Instead, Mary Thomas simply expressed her own beliefs and paused occasionally to read verses from the Bible that explained the basis for her faith.
More important than her teaching, Mary genuinely cared about Mother. And right then Mother needed someone to care.
Even before the divorce, Mother was a desperate woman with two young kids and no idea how to take care of them if things didn’t work out. She was ostracized by many who felt she was unconventional. Then along came Mary Thomas with what seemed like a single ray of hope. “There is another source of strength, Sonya,” the visitor said. “And this strength can be yours.”
Those were exactly the words she needed as a stabilizing force in her life. Mother finally understood that she wasn’t all alone in the world.
Over a period of weeks, Mary went over the teachings of her church, and Mother slowly came to believe in a loving God who expresses that love through Jesus Christ.
Day after day Mary Thomas talked patiently with Mother, answering questions, and listening to anything she wanted to say.
Mother’s third-grade education prevented her from reading most of the Bible passages, but her visitor didn’t give up. She stayed at it, reading everything aloud. And through that woman’s influence my mother began to study and read for herself.
Even though Mother could barely read, once she decided to learn, through hours of practice she taught herself to read well. Mother started to read the Bible, often sounding out the words, sometimes still not understanding; but she persisted. That was her determination at work. Eventually she was able to read relatively sophisticated material.
Aunt Jean and Uncle William, with whom we stayed after my parents’ divorce, had become Adventists in Boston. With their encouragement, it wasn’t long until Mother grew stronger in her beliefs. Never one to go into anything half-heartedly, she immediately became active and has remained a devout church member. And from the time of her own conversion, she started taking Curtis and me to church with her. The Adventist denomination is the only spiritual home I’ve ever known.
When I was 12 and more mature, I realized that although I’d been emotionally touched at age 8 and even had been baptized, I hadn’t understood exactly what being a Christian meant.
By the time I was 12, we had moved and were attending the Sharon Seventh-day Adventist Church in Inkster. After days of thinking about the matter, I spoke with Pastor Smith. “Although I’ve been baptized,” I said, “I didn’t really grasp the significance of what I was doing.”
“You do understand now?”
“Oh, yes, I’m 12 now,” I said, “and I believe in Jesus Christ. After all, Jesus was 12 when His parents first took Him to the temple in Jerusalem. So I’d like to be baptized again, because I understand and I’m ready now.”
Pastor Smith listened sympathetically, and having no problem with my request, he rebaptized me.
Yet in looking back, I’m not sure when I actually turned to God. Or perhaps it happened so gradually that I had no awareness of the progression. I do know that when I was 14, I finally understood how God can change us.
It was at age 14 that I confronted the most severe personal problem of my life, one that almost ruined me forever.
CHAPTER 6
A Terrible Temper
That sure was a dumb thing to say,” Jerry taunted as we walked down the hall together after English class. Kids crowded us on all sides, and Jerry’s voice rose above the din.
I shrugged. “Guess so.” My wrong answer in seventh-grade English had been embarrassing enough. I didn’t want to be reminded.
“You guess?” Jerry’s laugh was shrill. “Listen, Carson, that was one of the all-time stupid things of the year!”
I turned my eyes toward him. He was taller and heavier, not even one of my close friends. “You’ve said some pretty dumb things too,” I said softly.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Just last week you —”
Our words flew back and forth, my voice remaining calm while his grew louder and louder. Finally I turned to my locker. I’d just ignore him, and maybe he’d shut up and go away.
My fingers twirled the combination lock. Then, just as I lifted the lock, Jerry shoved me. I stumbled, and my temper flared. I forgot the 20 pounds of muscle he had on me. I didn’t see the kids and teachers milling in the hall. I swung at him, lock in hand. The blow slammed into his forehead, and he groaned, staggering backward, blood seeping from a three-inch gash.
Dazed, Jerry slowly lifted his hand to his forehead. He felt the sticky blood and carefully lowered his hand in front of his eyes. He screamed.
Of course the principal called me in. I’d calmed down by then and apologized profusely. “It was almost an accident,” I told him. “I never would have hit him if I’d remembered the lock in my hand.” I meant it too. I was ashamed. Christians didn’t lose their temper like that. I apologized to Jerry and the incident was closed.
And my t
emper? I forgot about it. I wasn’t the kind of guy who’d split open a kid’s head on purpose.
Some weeks later Mother brought home a new pair of pants for me. I took one look at them and shook my head. “No way, Mother. I’m not going to wear them. They’re the wrong kind.”
“What do you mean ‘wrong kind'?” she countered. She was tired. Her voice firm. “You need new pants. Now just wear these!”
I flung them back at her. “No,” I yelled. “I’m not going to wear these ugly things.”
She folded the pants across the back of the plastic kitchen chair. “I can’t take them back.” Her voice was patient. “They were on special.”
“I don’t care.” I spun to face her. “I hate them, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in them.”
“I paid good money for these pants.”
“They’re not what I want.”
She took a step forward. “Listen, Bennie. We don’t always get what we want out of life.”
Heat poured through my body, inflaming my face, energizing my muscles, “I will!” I yelled. “Just wait and see. I will. I’ll—”
My right arm drew back, my hand swung forward. Curtis jumped me from behind, wrestling me away from Mother, pinning my arms to my side.
The fact that I almost hit my mother should have made me realize how deadly my temper had become. Maybe I knew it but wouldn’t admit the truth to myself. I had what I only can label a pathological temper—a disease—and this sickness controlled me, making me totally irrational.
In general I was a good kid. It usually took a lot to make me mad. But once I reached the boiling point, I lost all rational control. Totally without thinking, when my anger was aroused, I grabbed the nearest brick, rock, or stick to bash someone. It was as if I had no conscious will in the matter.
Friends who didn’t know me as a kid think I’m exaggerating when I say I had a bad temper. But it’s no exaggeration and to make it clear, here are just two more of my crazed experiences.
I can’t remember how this one started, but a neighborhood kid hit me with a rock. It didn’t hurt, but again, out of that insane kind of anger, I raced to the side of the road, picked up a big rock, and hurled it at his face. I seldom missed when I threw anything. The rock broke his glasses and smashed his nose.
I was in the ninth grade when the unthinkable happened. I lost control and tried to knife a friend. Bob and I were listening to a transistor radio when he flipped the dial to another station. “You call that music?” he demanded.
“It’s better than what you like!” I yelled back, grabbing for the dial.
“Come on, Carson. You always —”
In that instant blind anger—pathological anger—took possession of me. Grabbing the camping knife I carried in my back pocket, I snapped it open and lunged for the boy who had been my friend. With all the power of my young muscles, I thrust the knife toward his belly. The knife hit his big, heavy ROTC buckle with such force that the blade snapped and dropped to the ground.
I stared at the broken blade and went weak. I had almost killed him. I had almost killed my friend. If the buckle hadn’t protected him, Bob would have been lying at my feet, dying or severely wounded. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, unbelieving. “I—I’m sorry,” I muttered, dropping the handle. I couldn’t look him in the eye. Without a word, I turned and ran home.
Thankfully the house was empty, for I couldn’t bear to see anyone. I raced to the bathroom where I could be alone, and locked the door. Then I sank down on the edge of the tub, my long legs stretching across the linoleum, bumping against the sink.
I tried to kill Bob. I tried to kill my friend. No matter how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut, I couldn’t escape the image—my hand, my knife, the belt buckle, the broken knife. And Bob’s face.
“This is crazy,” I finally mumbled. “I must be crazy. Sane people don’t try to kill their friends.” The rim of the tub felt cool under my hands. I put my hands on my hot face. “I’m doing so well at school, and then I do this.”
I’d dreamed of being a doctor since I was 8 years old. But how could I fulfill the dream with such a terrible temper? When angry, I went out of control and had no idea how to stop. I’d never make anything of myself if I didn’t control my temper. If only I could do something about the rage that burned inside me.
Two hours passed. The green and brown squiggly snakelike design on the linoleum swam before my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach, disgusted with myself, and ashamed. “Unless I get rid of this temper,” I said aloud, “I’m not going to make it. If Bob hadn’t worn that big buckle he’d probably be dead, and I’d be on my way to jail or reform school.”
Misery washed over me. My sweaty shirt stuck to my back. Sweat trickled down my armpits and my sides. I hated myself, but I couldn’t help myself, and so I hated myself even more.
From somewhere deep inside my mind came a strong impression. Pray. My mother had taught me to pray. My teachers at the religious school in Boston often told us that God would help us if we only asked Him. For weeks, for months, I had been trying to control my temper, figuring I could handle it myself. Now, in that small hot bathroom I knew the truth. I could not handle my temper alone.
I felt as though I could never face anyone again. How could I look my mother in the eye? Would she know? How could I ever see Bob again? How could he help but hate me? How could he ever trust me again?
“Lord,” I whispered, “You have to take this temper from me. If You don’t, I’ll never be free from it. I’ll end up doing things a lot worse than trying to stab one of my best friends.”
Already heavy into psychology (I had been reading Psychology Today for a year), I knew that temper was a personality trait. Standard thinking in the field pointed out the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of modifying personality traits. Even today some experts believe that the best we can do is accept our limitations and adjust to them.
Tears streamed between my fingers. “Lord, despite what all the experts tell me, You can change me. You can free me forever from this destructive personality trait.”
I wiped my nose on a piece of toilet paper and let it drop to the floor. “You’ve promised that if we come to You and ask something in faith, that You’ll do it. I believe that You can change this in me.” I stood up, looking at the narrow window, still pleading for God’s help. I couldn’t go on hating myself forever for all the terrible things I’d done.
I sank down on the toilet, sharp mental pictures of other temper fits filling my mind. I saw my anger, clenched my fists against my rage. I wouldn’t be any good for anything if I couldn’t change. My poor mother, I thought. She believes in me. Not even she knows how bad I am.
Misery engulfed me in darkness. “If you don’t do this for me, God, I’ve got no place else to go.”
At one point I’d slipped out of the bathroom long enough to grab a Bible. Now I opened it and began to read in Proverbs. Immediately I saw a string of verses about angry people and how they get themselves into trouble. Proverbs 16:32 impressed me the most: “He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city” (RSV).
My lips moved wordlessly as I continued to read. I felt as though the verses had been written just to me, for me. The words of Proverbs condemned me, but they also gave me hope. After a while peace begin to fill my mind. My hands stopped shaking. The tears stopped. During those hours alone in the bathroom, something happened to me. God heard my deep cries of anguish. A feeling of lightness flowed over me, and I knew a change of heart had taken place. I felt different. I was different.
At last I stood up, placed the Bible on the edge of the tub, and went to the sink. I washed my face and hands, straightened my clothes. I walked out of the bathroom a changed young man. “My temper will never control me again,” I told myself. “Never again. I’m free.”
And since that day, since those long hours wrestling with myself and crying to God for help, I have never had a problem with my t
emper.
That same afternoon I decided I would read the Bible every day. I’ve kept that practice as a daily habit and especially enjoy the book of Proverbs. Even now, whenever possible, I pick up my Bible and read the first thing every morning.
The miracle that took place was incredible when I stop to think about it. Some of my psychologically oriented friends insist that I still have the potential for anger. Maybe they’re right, but I’ve lived more than twenty years since that experience, and I’ve never had another flare-up or even had a serious problem of needing to control my temper.
I can tolerate amazing amounts of stress and ridicule. By God’s grace, it still doesn’t require any effort to shake off unpleasant, irritating things. God has helped me to conquer my terrible temper, once and forever.
During those hours in the bathroom I also came to realize that if people could make me angry they could control me. Why should I give someone else such power over my life?
Over the years I’ve chuckled at people who deliberately did things they thought would make me angry. I’m no better than anyone else, but I laugh inside at how foolish people can be, trying to make me angry. They don’t have any control over me.
And this is the reason. From that terrible day when I was 14 years old, my faith in God has been intensely personal and an important part of who I am. About that time I started to hum or sing a hymn that has continued to be my favorite, “Jesus Is All the World to Me.” Whenever anything irritates me, that hymn dissolves my negativity. I’ve explained it this way to young people, “I have sunshine in my heart regardless of conditions around me.”
I’m not afraid of anything as long as I think of Jesus Christ and my relationship to Him and remember that the One who created the universe can do anything. I also have evidence—my own experience—that God can do anything, because He changed me.
From age 14, I began to focus on the future. My mother’s lessons—and those of several of my teachers—were at last paying off.
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