What makes writer’s block so scary?

Fear of failure. Lack of trust. Pride. Self-containment.

I don’t trust you enough with my limits, shortcomings, and weaknesses.

I’m too proud and vain to be human with you.

I’m choosing to manifest pride and selfishness by isolating myself from you.

In this life of learning how to be faithful, writer’s block manifests itself in other ways:

The relationship I need to repair.

The work I’m afraid to do.

The confession I need to make and the help I need to seek.

The habit I need to form.

The questions I need to ask God.

The things I need to take up (and the things I need to put down).

Writer’s block isn’t really an insurmountable distraction or obstacle that comes from some place we don’t control.

It’s something we conjure so that we have an excuse to not do what we know we need to do right now in this moment.

There’s really only...

Living with an almost four-year old is like living with a three-star chef: He cooks up something authentic, bold, and surprising every day.

At least once a day, my son, Daniel, does something that makes me stop whatever I’m doing and wonder: “How did he come up with that? Where did he learn that?”

I’ve been teaching Daniel how to pray at bedtime. I get down on my knees next to the bed and fold my hands. He gets down on his knees and folds his hands. I say the words. He repeats the words with a few of his own thrown in. He would be one of those people we say is just “going through the motions” as we gossip about him at the restaurant after church.

Until last night.

We were done praying and he was under the covers. I was singing him a goodnight song. Suddenly, he got back out of bed and onto his knees next to me.

“I’m going to say a prayer for Papaw and Mary,” he informed me...

I’m on my way home to the Motor City after a couple of days in the Music City. My dad has cancer and he’s receiving care at Vanderbilt University Hospital in Nashville, Tennessee. I broke away for three days to be with him and Mom.

My dad can tell you that cancer sucks.

He can also tell you that chemotherapy sucks. He can tell you that the side effects of chemotherapy sucks.

He can tell you that what sucks even more is that he hasn’t even experienced anything close to the worst of it yet.

He can tell you that living in a strange apartment sucks when you’re sick and tired and just want to be home.

He can tell you that it sucks that very few of his family and friends are allowed to visit because his immune system is shut down by the chemo.

Dad can tell you that it sucks to have to think about bills and insurance and money when your life is at stake and you’re miserable all...

“…you are worried and upset about many things. But only one thing is necessary.”–Jesus Christ (Gospel of Luke 10.41b-42a).

These words puzzle me greatly.

The Gospel of Luke records Jesus saying them when he’s a guest in the home of a woman named Martha. We know that Jesus always travels with an entourage, so we may safely assume that Martha is hosting all of them. In the story, she is making “preparations,” which sounds like she is making a meal to feed her many guests.

Martha has a sister, Mary. As Martha is busy on her feet, Mary is sitting down at the feet of Jesus, “listening to what he said.”

How do you feel about this scene?

My wife will tell you exactly how I feel. I grew up watching my mom’s Southern hospitality in action. She entertained thousands of guests in our home. One thing Mom taught me: You always roll out the red carpet for guests. Making them feel comfortable...

Starting January 1 of this year, I began tracking happiness. I assign each day a “happiness score” between 1 and 10 and write out a brief explanation.

Patterns are becoming clearer after almost nine months of doing this.

For example, I’m happier the more I’m with my family. I’m also happier when I’m eating well, exercising, and getting enough sleep. I’m happier when I’m productive at work (although this does not appear to be as important to my happiness as family and health).

People talk a lot about finding “balance” in their lives. “Work-life” balance is a term that you likely know well.

What this term implies is that career (work) has mass equal to family and health (life). That is to say: If you dropped ten spoons full of career onto one side of a scale and ten spoons full of family/health into the other, the scale would balance. In equation form, it would look like this:

...

More than 40 years ago, my dad just missed getting drafted to go to Vietnam. Two weeks ago, Vietnam caught up to him in a different form: Cancer.

This is not the “We’ll just remove this spot here, Mr. Irwin, and you’ll be done by lunchtime” type of cancer. This cancer is a Viet Cong ambush in the jungle at night. Oh, you have a family? You’re a “good guy” who lives a clean, moral life? You’re a pastor whose job it is to help people? This cancer doesn’t give a shit.

I actually don’t like this personification of cancer. All of my life, I’ve listened to people talk about cancer as an “enemy” against whom they “battle” or “fight.” This makes sense. It is a battle for survival that, at its worst, surely feels like World War I trench warfare.

The thing is: Cancer is your own body. It’s your own cells. You battle your own body. You kill your own body in order to save it. Personifying...

Jesus Christ was emphatic when he said–commanded–his apprentices not to worry. He left no margin for misunderstanding. Worry is direct disobedience to God. It’s on the no-fly list.

Oh, but I worry a lot. Why?

Well, I have many reasons to worry. That is to say: Worry seems reasonable, doesn’t it? When the car breaks down and the money isn’t in the bank to fix it, doesn’t worry seem like the right emotion for the occasion? Who would blame you for worrying?

Upon deeper reflection, however, I discover something else at work in worry. When I worry, it has little to do with fear and a lot to do with pride.

I want people to see me worry because worry is people with common sense do. I want people to see me as someone who has common sense.

I want people to see me worry because worry is what important people with big problems do. I want people to see me as an important person with big...

If you’re a human being and you’re living life, you and all that you hold dear will take some damage. You don’t have a choice.

My (almost) four-year old’s knees were like porcelain until he learned to walk, jump, run, and skip. Now they look like a Michigan road that’s been patched with asphalt a few times.

Life is happening, therefore damage is happening.

By the time we’re in elementary school, most of us are already expert at damage control. We learn how to anticipate and avoid damage. My best friend, Jimmy, was always breaking arms (three different times!) and getting stitches climbing trees and riding horses. Jimmy apparently couldn’t learn, but I did: I haven’t been on a horse since about third grade.

You know it’s not just physical damage we learn to avoid.

I was as in love with Jill as a boy can be. My infatuation with her lasted from about first grade through sixth grade...

A little over ten years ago, I was poor.

Once, during that period, I looked at my bank account and saw that I had about seven dollars. I went to the grocery store to buy a loaf of bread and milk. That would give me something to eat for a few days until I found a way to put more money in my account.

I spent about three dollars on that trip to the grocery store.

The next day, I went back for another small item. About a buck. By my calculations, I should have around three dollars left in my account. That afternoon, I treated myself to a Dr. Pepper.

A couple of days later, I received a $200 check. I took it to the bank to deposit the money in my account. I needed to buy groceries and fill my gas tank. Once I paid for those things, I expected to have about $100 to get me through a couple of weeks.

Except when I deposited the check, my balance was only $54.70. How could this be?

A...

A few days ago, my dad found out he has a rare form of aggressive cancer.

How rare? Fewer than 200 people get this cancer each year in the United States. The current U.S. population is 318.9 million. Of those Americans, 1,685,210 will get cancer in 2016. If Dad is one of only 200 people who contract the kind of cancer he has, he represents 0.01 percent of all cancer patients.

If all Americans were of equal age, gender, health, etc., your odds of getting cancer this year would be 0.05 percent. Your odds of getting the kind of cancer my dad has is 0.00006 percent. You have a better chance of getting struck by lighting or winning the lottery.

In other words, getting this form of cancer is close to impossible. When impossible things happen, we call that a miracle.

So, I ask: If it is a miracle that Dad got this cancer, why shouldn’t we believe that the cure will be just as...