“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.
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 thought I would never purchase an iPhone. I figured I didn’t need it (I had a perfectly functional cell phone), and I was afraid if I got one, I would end up like those annoying iPhone users who were constantly checking their phone like they were looking for their own vital signs. But it was the camera that got me.
This post is written in memory of the countless infants who were murdered at the hands of Dr. Kermit Gosnell, who was convicted of their deaths in 2013. You can read more about the trial here. We do not know how many thousands of you there are; nor do we know the names God has now given you. But what we do know is that your lives on this earth were far too short, that you deserved better than you got – and today, we want you to know this: we remember you.
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 used to judge people with small children pretty harshly. Their children ruined my dinner, made my flights miserable, woke me up, and made for poor house guests. Why don’t they do something with those kids? I wondered with contempt. As if they weren’t trying.
“Daddy!” my two-year-old daughter yelled from her bed last Friday morning after she woke up. I hadn’t gotten to see her the day before, so I was looking forward to spending time with her before heading to work. I went into her room and picked her up, expecting her to squirm around and ask for her favorite stuffed animal. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my neck and put her head on my shoulder.
“Joshua, you need to come home,” my wife said over the phone. She sounded scared. For some reason, the previous owners of our home had installed a deadbolt lock on the master bedroom door, and my two-year-old had managed to lock herself and our one-year-old inside.
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.
Erin was my best friend in middle school, and God knows I needed one. I was getting bullied at school and lagging behind in my efforts to make friends with the boys in my grade. But she was a better friend—male or female—than most kids ever have. When my parents separated in eighth grade, she was the only person to whom I revealed that I had actually spent a couple of hours crying about it. She told me she felt honored that I trusted her.
The other day, my two-year-old daughter was standing in the kitchen, randomly saying, “Jesus was born, Jesus was born!” So I said, “Jesus died. He rose again, He went to Heaven, and – guess what? He’s coming back to see us!” As soon as the phrase, “He’s coming back to see us” left my mouth, I winced, reflexively thinking, “I shouldn’t tell her that. She might actually expect Him to come visit sometime soon.”
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 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.
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.
I was in my thirties before I realized what a weird game we played at the church Christmas dinner of 1987. It seemed ingenious at the time though. Someone took a large goblet, pressed play on the tape deck, and passed the goblet around the room. The 19 or 20 people of our little church were expected to drop money in when it passed by. The object of the game was simple: when the music stopped playing, whoever had the glass got to keep all the change.
Joshua Rogers 