After witnessing the tragic shooting of Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis, and after hearing the obscenities shouted at her by the officer who pulled the trigger, I was reminded (as were millions of other women) of the time those same obscenities were shouted at me.

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We were in Louisville, Kentucky this past fall for a dear friend's son's wedding. We had driven to Kentucky from Iowa that day and were excited to meet other dear friends for dinner before resting up for the big day.

The Cuban restaurant came highly recommended and was loud, fun and crowded. We tucked into a corner table with our backs to the room, breathing a sigh of relief after a full day of driving. We could barely hear the waiter describing the daily specials and fun drinks, but we smiled and laughed and figured things out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man bump into my husband's chair. He was trying to push past him to get to the restroom. It was a quick, hard jolt but he got by. A few minutes later, as this same man made his way back to his table directly behind us, he now bashed into my husband's chair forcefully enough to knock my husband forward, jar the entire table, and catch my chair in the process.

My husband turned and said, "You could have simply said excuse me and we would have moved our chairs in for you."

The man lost his mind and yelled furiously at us, letting us know how rude we were that our chairs were in his way. Things got a heated between the men and it was pretty stressful. The man who crashed into us would not let it go.

So, I turned and again repeated what my husband had said, "All you had to do was say 'excuse me' and we would have gladly pulled our chairs in."

Without a moment's hesitation, he pointed his finger in my face, eyes bulging, and yelled, "You are a f*cking b*tch!"

Stop and think about that for a moment.

This was a nice restaurant. This man was well-dressed and appeared fully functional. He was there to celebrate his adult son's birthday. He was sitting with a table full of friends and family. Without giving it a thought, he lost his mind at me.

Had I been alone I would have been terrified.

But I wasn't alone and I am old enough now to have zero fear of standing my ground.

I turned to him and said, "Sir, I have never in my life been called that kind of name by a grown man and you should be ashamed of yourself. I am a pastor."

I didn't have to throw the last part in about being a pastor, but know what? It felt really good.

He quickly dropped his angry stare and looked down at his plate until I turned around.

Conversation over.

Or so we thought ...

As this man's table finished their meal, a couple who were part of his group marched over to my husband and said, "Thanks a lot for ruining our friend's night," as if somehow this fiasco was our fault.

To top it off, they also wanted us to know that they were "God-fearing people. Strong Christians." As if somehow, that explained their friend's behavior?

And they left.

Management rushed to our table, apologizing for their uncivil behavior. They gave us free desert. They said that this table of people talked trash about me and my husband the entire night and that their waiter said they were some of the rudest people they had ever waited on.

At this point, the dam burst for me and I began to sob. Though I am not scared to stand my ground, being screamed at by a grown man is terrifying. It just is.

A man unable to navigate his anger who feels compelled and completely free to jam his finger into a woman's face and call her a degrading, disgusting name, is abuse, pure and simple.

And it is terrifying.

All I could think of later was ...

At least he didn't have a gun.

At least he didn't have a gun.

At least he didn't have a gun.