Lately, I find it hard to avoid getting angry.
On Facebook, I watch as the posts and comments I scroll through give off sparks with their vitriol. The chasm of understanding dividing me from those I disagree with feels achingly wide. And I know that I’m not the only one experiencing this gap, and the underlying anger that comes with it: a friend of mine recently wrote about some of the underlying issues we face as a nation for a faith-based website; she received death threats.
But for me personally the anger and alienation landed closest to home last year when I visited my sister Katie not long after one of the presidential debates.
One afternoon, back from a languid trip to a cider mill, Katie and I started chatting about the candidates. To my surprise and chagrin, our light-hearted discussion grew heated. After a few minutes, breathing hard, I held up a hand.
“Maybe we should stop talking about this,” I said.
I saw my dismay reflected in Katie’s eyes. She nodded and we changed the subject.
I suggested we stop because her face told me my words had landed like punches. I knew that look and it frightened me. I recognized it because I used to see it way too frequently on my husband’s face when we first married…
I’m over at For Her, talking about how, in the current political climate, we can use our anger productively to have desperately needed conversations. Won’t you join me there?
Why Little Yeses Change You