Vol.10 No.6

Taming My Terrible Temper
Like Jacob, this world-famous neurosurgeon wrestled with God for victory and prevailed!
By Ben Carson, M.D.

“That was a dumb thing to say,” Jerry taunted as we walked down the hall together.

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!”

“You’ve said some pretty dumb things too,” I said softly.

Our words flew back and forth. Finally, I turned to my locker. Jerry shoved me. I stumbled, and my temper flared. The blow slammed into his forehead, and he groaned, staggering backward, blood seeping from a three-inch gash.

The principal called me in. I’d calmed down by then and apologized profusely. I was ashamed. Christians didn’t lose their temper. I apologized to Jerry and the incident was closed.

And my temper? I forgot about it. Some weeks later Mother brought home a new pair of pants for me. “No way, Mother. I’m not going to wear them.”

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.”

As we continued to argue, heat poured through my body, inflaming my face. Curtis [his brother] jumped me from behind, wrestling me away from Mother. The fact that I almost hit my mother should have made me realize how deadly my temper had become.

Friends who didn’t know me as a kid think I’m exaggerating when I say I had a bad temper. But it’s not exaggeration.

I was in the ninth grade when the unthinkable happened. Bob and I were listening to a radio when he flipped the dial to another station. “You call that music?” he demanded. I yelled back, grabbing for the dial.

“Come on, Carson. You always—”

In that instant, blind, pathological anger took possession of me. Grabbing the camping knife I carried in my back pocket. 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 my friend. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, dropping the handle. Without a word, I turned and ran home.

Thankfully, the house was empty. I raced to the bathroom and locked the door. 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.

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. If only I could do something about the rage that burned inside me.

Two hours passed. 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.”

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 months, I had been trying to control my temper, figuring I could handle it myself. Now, I knew the truth. I could not handle my temper alone.

“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.” 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. 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 sank down on the toilet, sharp mental pictures of other temper fits filling my mind. I wouldn’t be good for anything if I could NOT change. My poor mother, I thought. She believes in me. Not even she knows how bad I am.

“If you don’t do this for me, God, I’ve got no place else to go.”

I’d slipped out of the bathroom long enough to grab a Bible. Now I opened it and began to read Proverbs. Immediately I saw a string of verses about angry people and how they get into trouble. Proverbs 16:32 impressed me the most:

“He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.” I felt the verses had been written just for me. The words of Proverbs condemned me, but they also gave me hope. After a while, peace filled 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 achange of heart had taken place. I felt different. I was different.

I walked out of the bathroom a changed young man. My temper will never control me again, I told myself. I’m free.

Since those long hours wrestling with myself and crying to God for help, I never had a problem with my temper.

Since those long hours wrestling with myself and crying to God for help, I haven’t had a problem with my temper.

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.

* Adapted from his autobiography, Gifted Hands, “A Terrible Temper,” by Ben Carson, M.D., with Cecil Murphey, Review and Herald Publishing Association. Used by permission