Jerome Safe

And to think I was just starting to doubt myself.

This morning I sat down to write about my latest attempt at curbing my anger.

I have a variety of techniques that have worked to some extent, but since I declared 2019 to be my Best Year Ever (BYE) I decided to go old school—as in old Catholic school—and find a saint that can me help out with my rage issues.

One of the great things about being Catholic—and that’s an awfully short list—is that you can find a saint for just about anything that ails you.

I have prayed to Saint Martin de Porres and Saint Jude over the years, but I wanted to find someone whose intercessions are fury-centric.

A quick Google search came up with Saint Jerome, who translated the Bible into Latin directly from the Hebrew texts of the Old Testament, instead of relying on the Greek translation.

In addition to anger management, Jerome is the patron saint of translators, librarians and encyclopedists.

And I was astonished to learn that St. Jerome is credited with coming up with the ditty "Good, better, best. Never let it rest. 'Til your good is better and your better is best," which my mother used to say all the time. He sounded like my kind of guy.

Reading his biography, I learned that Jerome—whose feast day is Monday--had very nasty temper, just like yours truly. He was known as “The Name-Caller” and he trashed both saints and heretics.

But he also hated his anger, and his brutal outbursts were always followed by wrenching remorse.

“Woe to me, wretch that I am!” he wrote in an attempt reconcile with an estranged aunt.

I have to say I wasn’t too sure about Saint Jerome at first. How much I could I possibly improve if I'm asking for help from a dude who is as wacky as I am?

But that’s the point, isn’t it? It really does take one to know one, and if I can invoke Saint Jerome whenever I start to see red, then maybe my path will be a little less troubled and those ferocious mood swings between anger and shame will be less frequent.

I am well-aware that this the 21st Century and it may seem weird to be praying to a 4th Century priest who blew his gasket with the regularity of Old Faithful belching out steam.

Never Let it Rest

And reaching back to Catholicism for help, given the first hideous go-round, may sound like the Stockholm Syndrome, but then I figure it's the least the church could do for me given the eight years of misery I had to endure.

I’ve been around long enough to know that its unhealthy and unrealistic to expect one new approach to completely erase a lifelong habit—and by doing so, you only invite in frustration and more anger.

But Fred the Shrink always encourages me to maintain an emotional toolbox, where I have a collection of healthy techniques I use to stay calm and positive. So Saint Jerome is the latest addition.

I’ve been asking for Saint Jerome’s support all week and I have to say I’ve noticed a difference. When the tension builds up, I inwardly shout “Saint Jerome!” like I’m yelling for a lifeguard—which I sort of am.

I’ve also been calling out “Jeromino!” lately in my mind to make myself laugh.

I pinned his image up in my cubicle at work, so when the pressure builds up at the office I just peer around my computer and scope out his bearded mug.

I’m also putting up a picture in my apartment—maybe two of them: one to go on the refrigerator, and one in the computer room when my personal machine goes blotto on me.

Like it did this morning when I sat down to write this post. I had been questioning the whole purpose of this essay, wondering if I really believed that a man who had lived and died centuries ago could do anything for me in the here and now.

And then I tried to paste some material into a document and I got the dreaded spinning Beachball of Doom, Apple’s inventive little way of telling you that you’re going to have a long and pointless wait before the machine gets back to work.

I started feeling the anger rise and—in a bit of a cultural mash-up—I grasped the middle finger on my left hand, employing a routine from Jin Shin Jysutsu, a Japanese pressure point art that I’ve only begun to follow, while calling out to Saint Jerome.

I felt my breathing return to normal, the blood pressure coming down, and when I looked at my computer screen, the Beach Ball of Doom had disappeared.

Saint Jerome, welcome to the team.