By the time I entered fifth grade, I was well-acquainted with the principal’s office. I mean, I wasn’t the kind of kid who started fires in the bathroom – I was just a helpless, talkative instigator.
Tag: guilt
Confessions of a Guilt-driven Wife
Ladies, I know it’s tempting to think your husband purposefully tries to be insensitive to your deepest insecurities and fears, but the fact is, we often aren’t even aware of them. You’re struggling with major body image issues, and we think you can’t figure out what to wear. You feel isolated and friendless, and we think you’re just being needy.
Confessions of a Pregnant Teenager
“When I was 17 years old, I had sex on the first day of my senior year of high school and got pregnant.” If that were the first line of your story, could you tell it? This is, in fact, the story of my old friend, singer/songwriter Rachel Wilhelm, and she’s telling it here today on my blog. If you are wrestling with shame because you’ve conceived a child out of wedlock or you were conceived out of wedlock, please read this post. Thanks, Rachel, for your fearless vulnerability.
Rescued from the Past and Future
I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit this, but here goes: when I’m at the beach with my two toddlers, I live with a persistent, low-grade fear that they’re going to get swept up by a wave and drown. Granted, we’ve been to the beach several times with our girls, and neither of them have ever come close. But even when they aren’t in the water, the prospect of it lurks in my mind.
I Don’t Need a Parenting Guilt Trip
As a parent of toddlers, I hear it every week: “They’re gonna be all grown up before you know it.” I could be wrong, but when people say that to me, shaking their heads and looking down, I feel like the implication is, “. . . and you’re going to feel so guilty that you didn’t appreciate every one of these precious moments when you had the chance.” No, I won’t. If I remember the moments accurately, I won’t.
I Yell at My Family, God Speaks
I think it’s childish, unkind, and pathetic for a man to raise his voice at his wife, but last week, in a moment of weakness, I let her (and myself) down. And in that ugly moment, God was there. My wife was very sick, so I had spent most of the day taking care of our daughters, ages one and two. I had gotten them dressed, made them breakfast and lunch, played with them, put them down for naps, played with them some more, and generally felt upbeat about it the whole time, despite the messy house.
A Bitter Sibling Tells All
I know my reaction to my brother’s homecoming today probably seems a little cold. He’s been gone for months, shows up halfway dead, and I crash his welcome home party. Let me assure you, there is more to the story.
I Need to Confess Something
There was a time in my adult life when I thought we were only supposed to confess our sins to God. I based it on scriptures like, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us of all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9). But at some point, I ran across a more intimidating verse: “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” (James 5:16) (emphasis added).
Held Hostage by Unforgiveness
This post is a continuation of “The Thrill of Dishonoring My Father.” I tried to confront my dad about his failures one time when I was a sophomore in college. It didn’t go well. We were getting to know each other again after being estranged for three years. Because he lived 12 hours away, we talked over the phone, building an awkward, on-and-off, long-distance relationship.
The Thrill of Dishonoring my Father
The story about my dad and the police car chase was the one that always got people’s attention. “That’s crazy,” they would say. I would suppress a smile and gin up some spiritual-sounding reason for bringing it up.
Caught Between Love and a Cigarette
I was a child when I started hating cigarettes. Blame my dad. His smoking habit clung to him like a dirty, old coat. He said he hated it, but the only thing that could stop him from puffing was dipping snuff. I found that equally disgusting. Over time, my disgust with dad’s smoking habit turned into a disgust with anyone who smoked cigarettes. It only got worse in college when I became a neurotic, Bible-thumping church cop who gratuitously looked for reasons to condemn people to hell.
Dear Jesus, I am a Loser
A few months ago, my doctor gave me a drug called Topamax to address some migraine-like symptoms I was having. Although it helped with the symptoms, it also left me with a perpetual sense of drunkenness, an inability to pronounce simple words, and an overall lack of discretion. If I thought it, I said it; and I was proud of it. With all the awkwardness of a socially inept 14-year-old, I bumbled my way through conversations, yielding profoundly embarrassing results. I was off the drug in less than a week.
Face-plant Into the Arms of Jesus
This is a continuation of my previous post. After years of self-induced, spiritual stress, I finally realized God wasn’t the shin-kicking, cosmic scorekeeper I had imagined. For the first time since I was a kid, I knew my salvation was secure, and obedience seemed like an opportunity, rather than an obligation. I was a changed man, a Jesusy flower child, feeling saved all over again.
Did Mel Gibson Kill Jesus?
This is a continuation of my previous post. Two days before the opening of The Passion of the Christ, I sat in front of the television, wide-eyed, anxiously awaiting Diane Sawyer’s prime-time special – an interview with Mel Gibson, the film’s director. At the crux of the interview, Sawyer squinted her eyes, tilted her head, and asked Mel Gibson the big question: “Who killed Jesus? Was it the Jews? The Romans?” I leaned forward, curious what Gibson would say.
Grace in the Pediatric ICU
This is a continuation of my previous post. My seven-month-old nephew, Canaan, was in a semi-comatose state, a victim of an unforeseen intestinal disease. He had been through two emergency surgeries in two days; his small intestine and kidneys were failing. He had 12 machines hooked to his body, two respirators down his throat, and his swollen small intestine was hanging in a bag above his body.
Joshua Rogers 