Have you ever been standing in front of a mirror when you yelled at your kids?

In that out-of-the-way place in South America, life offered me little that felt normal. I had no sense of belonging. And I was fatigued after traveling for a month to get there. And although day one of our new life in Lomalinda had gotten off to a great start (click on that link), and although outwardly I was putting on a brave face, inside I was struggling.

After eating lunch in the dining hall at the center of our mission outpost, Dave and the kids and I had set out walking toward our house, about half a mile away.

But the heat! The heat! Hiking without hats or umbrellas under equatorial sun, we had labored up hills, around curves, down hills, across a softball field, up a slight incline, and into the house we’d been assigned.

Exhausted by that cruel sun and feeling sick, we rested on our beds for a few minutes, but soon Dave headed to the school—he was excited to check out his classroom and get ready for the new year. The kids meandered outside to get acquainted with the yard while I began unpacking suitcases, footlocker, duffle bag, and boxes.

Six-year-old Matt had met a neighbor boy, Glenn Gardner. They looked like brothers, blue-eyed, freckle-faced blonds. Another boy, Ray Rising, Jr., joined them, and the two boys showed Matt the wonders of his new neighborhood.

The weather made the house hot and humid. Someone told us it was the hottest day of the year, and we didn’t have air conditioning, not even a fan. My sweat-drenched clothes clung to my front and back and armpits.

Through open windows and doors, an odor drifted in—milky, warm, sugary, loamy, spicy, damp. Sharp, verdant. Together, the heat and smells made my stomach lurch.

I stood in the kitchen—unpacking, perspiring, and feeling sick to my stomach—when Matt’s new little friend, Glenny, darted into the house, giggling and wiggling.

He smacked his two feet on the floor in front of mine, raised his two hands within inches of my nose—between them he stretched out something dark and thin—and with an enormous grin, he hollered, “Ya wanna see a real, live boa constrictor?”

Glenny had brought a snake into my house.

A snake!

In my house!

I glared down into his sweaty, freckled, beaming little face and—when I could finally gulp in air—I yelled, “No. Get out!” pointing toward the door.

I’ve never forgotten how his glowing face dimmed, he blinked, caught his breath, turned, and sprinted down the hall.

Right away I knew I’d made a mistake.

The kid just wanted to welcome me to Lomalinda

with the coolest thing he could imagine.

Ashamed, I told myself, You have to do something. But what?

I grabbed my camera and dashed out the door behind him. “Wait, Glenny, let me take your picture.”

They stood in a line—Karen, Glenny and his baby boa, Matt, and Ray. I clicked the camera, turned, and willed my knees to carry me back to the kitchen, realizing only then that dear Glenny probably didn’t know that prim, proper women from upscale suburbs don’t like snakes in their homes.

I’m still so ashamed that I yelled into Glenny’s face, especially since he thought he was offering me something beyond amazing.  

A friend once asked me and a group of our friends, “Have you ever been standing in front of a mirror when you yelled at your kids?”

Some of us chortled, but she said, “I’m serious. The other day I was standing in front of the mirror when I yelled at my kids, and I was horrified at what I saw. I looked mean and angry and ugly. The worst part is that’s what I look like every time I yell at them. And they will never forget that hideous look on my face.” She was shaken.

My heart breaks:

For all these years (forty-four now)

what Glenny remembers of meeting me

is that I looked down into his grinning little face and screamed at him

—and I’m sure my face looked mean and angry and ugly.

And I ordered him out of my house.

And all he wanted was to welcome me to Lomalinda

with the coolest thing he could imagine.

I’m so terribly sorry.