I was a sophomore in college when I began receiving a series of harassing emails from an unidentified person. Each one was loaded with expletives and insults that cut into my stomach like rusty razors, leaving me with a cold, sick feeling. The worst part was that it was clear that I somehow knew the person, who I assumed was male based on the tone of the emails.
In 2009, I was at a friend’s birthday party when my vision suddenly became distorted. I could hear and see everyone, but it felt like I was in a dream. About 15 seconds later, I came out of it. I walked over to my friend, who’s a doctor, and tried to describe what happened. “Maybe you’ve got superpowers,” he said, and we both chuckled. Soon thereafter, I stopped chuckling.
This morning, I was driving my six-year-old daughter to school, and she said, “Daddy, what are we going to talk about?” As morbid as it may seem, I decided to talk to her about what to do if she’s in a situation where someone is shooting a gun in her school. She wanted to know what kind of person would do that, and I told her that it’s the kind of person whose heart is full of Satan.
The other night, I was putting my daughters down to bed, and my oldest girl said, “Daddy, can you stay in here for a few minutes?” “It’s getting late,” I said, “and you need to go to sleep.” “Daddy,” she said, looking like she was going to cry, “I missed you all day at school, but I didn’t realize it until now.”
Today, my family and I were over at my friend Tim’s house for a gathering, and his son was throwing up, which is a concern. He has a potentially serious disorder called Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome which, if it gets out of control, can be debilitating.
The night before my wedding as I was drifting to sleep, I decided to ask God for a small favor.
I can hardly stand to read my journal entries from my college years — it stresses me out. I was an extremely zealous Christian, and although I was genuinely seeking to follow Jesus, I got a little sidetracked during my freshman year.
Whenever I’m anxious, I often feel paralyzed and unable to pray. In those moments, I remember two elderly women who taught me a simple way to connect with God.
A couple of weeks ago, there was an unexpected turn of events in my life that knocked the wind out of me. At first, it agitated me; then agitation turned into anxiety, and anxiety turned into a low-grade feeling of panic. I didn’t have a lot of control over the circumstances, and every moment I left things unresolved, it weighed on me more heavily.
This morning, I spent 90 minutes playing with blocks on the floor with my daughters. My mom is a big part of the reason I did it.
I’ve been leading worship at my church since 2007, and let me tell you something: I’m still not quite used to it.
The other morning, I got up at 5:00 a.m., put on my gym clothes in a sleepy stupor, and got in the car. As I pulled out of the driveway, the thought hit me: I really ought to pray more often.
This week, I had the unfortunate experience of getting multiple shots in my gums and spending a total of seven hours in three different dentist’s chairs. The only good part about the experience is that it’s finally over.
I hated riding the bus when I was a kid. It wasn’t just that I barfed one of the many times I got carsick – it was being crowded in there with a bunch of sweaty kids, riding for 45 minutes, and hearing the elderly bus driver scream, “Jennicka!!” at this little girl who was always causing trouble.
It was my first year of law school, and I was single. I wanted to be married, but it didn’t matter. I was spending 12 hours a day in class or in the library, so there wasn’t any real chance of my getting to know anyone.
