She's one of those women you can't imagine losing control. Loving God and her family was always her highest priority. I was accustomed to seeing her every few weeks when she quietly vanished from my life. I thought of her often, left messages, but still no contact for almost a year.

Then one day she called. And in the midst of inquiring what the other had been up to, she began to reveal the reason for her disappearance. She had experienced a long season of what I refer to as "high maintenance parenting"--sleepless nights followed by stressful days filled with conversations that leave you too drained to remember your own name much less keep up good appearances.

And if there's one thing I've noticed about Christians, it's that when a smile becomes too difficult to maintain, we often withdrawal for fear that we might be seen hurting.

My friend struggled to reconcile what had happened in her family. She and her husband attended church, loved the Lord, and provided a good home for their children. But they were not immune to teenage rebellion, even as Christians. She told me of the night her son was arrested and of his return home. In spite of everything, rock bottom had not yet arrived, his verbal attacks on her began again and a gentle woman finally snapped. She hit him.

"How did this happen?" she asked. We aren't violent people. Things like this don't happen in our home." Tears of confusion, shame, and regret accompanied her confession. I told her how deeply sorry I was for all that they had been through and felt compelled to share about a time when I lost control. 

My oldest son, Christopher, was hard to parent throughout high school. I did everything I could to keep him from smoking pot; to no avail. He wasn't the type of kid who would deny it either. If he was high he would say, "Yep, I'm high." He didn't care if I grounded him or took privileges away because the severity of cystic acne had stolen his social life. He spent most of his time alone playing an acoustic guitar and I often wondered how something so beautiful could come out of someone so angry.

Eighteen was the toughest age of all. By then he had mastered the pushing of every button I had. He wanted the freedom that accompanies adulthood, but with none of the responsibilities. A combination that would soon lead to my emotional demise, at least for a moment anyway. I don't remember what he said, but whatever it was, it invoked one of those, "this is my house" meltdowns. I charged into his room, stepped onto his bed, and began pulling posters off the wall.

He quickly stood nose to nose with me and after a few verbal exchanges I dare not repeat, I grabbed the collar of his shirt. I won't sugar coat it. I fully intended to separate my  firstborns head from his shoulders and ask God to heal him later!

The next thing I knew, my husband, Michael, was pulling me off of him. Hours later when we had all calmed down, I told Michael that I knew Christopher would never hurt me and that there was no need for him to intervene. To which he responded, "I wasn't afraid he was going to hurt you. I was afraid you were going to hurt him."

By the end of my story, her tears had turned into the kind of inappropriate laughter that can only come from pain coupled with pure exhaustion. Grace had gently placed her feet back on the road to human frailty by prompting me to confess something I preferred to keep to myself. 

No casualties to date in either family. God is still in control.

"...for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, being justified freely by His grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus..." (Romans 3:23-24 NKJV).