shadowwonder

I've written more than once about how I’m inclined to struggle with being anxious , and how I sense that this is a sin . This prompted an interesting discussion with a friend, whom I’ll call Ruth.   For her, the idea that a loving God would label anxiety as “sin” made her uncomfortable.    She doesn’t believe God is that harsh. I can understand her perspective:  A tendency towards anxiety seems so innocuous.   After all, i t could be argued that one person’s anxiety isn’t hurting anyone else (although I’m not sure I would support that particular perspective).   So  I can certainly see how using a loaded term like “sin” in reference to anxiety seems not only severe, but maybe inaccurate.   Ruth may very well be right on target. But for months now, I’ve been revisiting that conversation in my mind. I think I get her point:   we don’t like the word “sin.”   We’re understandably hesitant to use it in reference...

We sat by each other at Floyd Casey Football Stadium—probably about this time of year.   But the unmerciful Waco autumn weather felt more like July.   At least the sun had set, granting some relief. I can’t remember what we talked about over our popcorn and Dr. Peppers.   Maybe we mocked the Milli Vanilli songs we’d listened to countless times that summer, or laughed (again) about the Caddo “C” Julie Caldwell and I mistakenly finger-painted on a camper’s sleeping face in our midnight attempt to aggravate our Osage friend.   We probably tried (unsuccessfully) to make sense of the strangeness we’d encountered in our James Joyce class.   Whatever was said, I’m certain it included laughter—Troy’s specialty. Partway through the game, the Flash photography girl appeared, so we called her over to take our picture.   Laughing, I mentioned that my eyes would probably be closed like usual.   But just before she snapped the shot, Troy reached around f...

Again you ask to play the ipod while we drive to school.     Again I say “No,” suppressing the familiar stone of self-doubt, heavy in my stomach. Again you say—slowly—“Yes ma’am,” face mirroring the morning clouds. Your quietly reluctant obedience is likely fueled by a hope:  cooperating now might earn an opportunity later.  Not my favorite motivator. It will have to do.  I am longing for ten minutes of together. I ask:  “What’s happening at school today?” At first, a forced “Nothing.”  Then, from the back seat: “I have three tests.”  Followed by: “Want me to help you review while we drive?” Your offer is declined.   But your kindness lends light. Soon:  “Josh is so funny, Mom.  And Mrs. Phillips is the best.” Another voice joins in: “You wouldn’t believe what happened yesterday . . . .“ Stories are shared. The half-risen sun blazes orange on the horizon. And your eyes, smiling, meet...