My father was a calm driver. He used his cruise control button to enable him to take his foot off the pedal and just steer with two fingers. I don't think he ever had an accident. My mother was nervous. She avoided busy streets, preferring to use scenic back roads when she could. Both hands were tightly gripped to the wheel, and what was more problematic, both feet were on the pedals. This was not because there was a clutch. She wanted one foot on the brake and the other on the gas. My father tried to explain that it is hard on the car to give mixed messages but she ignored him. 

 

I get it. I have been guilty of such confusion. I become annoyed at someone because I feel disconnected, so I rebuff them in the hopes that they will check in. Or I am mad that someone is late getting home, because I love them and am afraid they are hurt. 

 

I read a story by a counselor whose patient was a young physician. He was angry, infuriated really, about the system that forced him to work inhuman hours, with people who gave inadequate care. The counselor listened to him fume and rage for three or four sessions, until they came face to face with his pain. 

 

Seeing children suffer was ripping him apart. The counselor invited him to close his eyes and be curious. Reluctantly he agreed. Soon the doctor's breathing slowed, and there was an image of a bearded man in white. 

 

"White scrubs?"

 

"No, a robe." 

 

"What is he doing?" she asked gently.

 

"Nothing! Just standing there with his arms out!" He was disgusted. Then he softened. "A bird landed on his outstretched hand."

 

In that moment they realized that it was St. Francis. The doctor felt passionately about healing, and yet it was muddied by fury. 

 

He exhaled deeply. A lone tear escaped his closed eyes. 

 

In the years that followed the doctor was more clear about why he gave the best years of his life to medicine. Instead of the confusion of resentment tangled with compassion, he lifted his foot off the brake.