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...

I grew up believing in the Christian conversion experience.

You know, being “born again.” The heavens parting, light streaming, doves descending, operatic voices in chorus.

I went down into the baptismal waters a sinner: Sinful behavior, sinful feelings, sinful thoughts. I expected to rise from those waters a saint. All that old sin down the drain like dirt in a bathtub. I was sure I would never fall short or miss the mark again.

In fact, my darkest, deepest, most compulsive sins were still my future.

Practically speaking, that’s one of the great disadvantages of baptism before puberty. You’re a 12-year old saint and almost overnight you become a raging, staggering sinner with an obsession for boobs.

They say males think about sex every seven seconds (or 8,000 times a day). Once sex became the tick-tock metronome of my mind, all bets on sainthood were off. As a baptized Christian...

Something happened to my prayers. They stopped being prayer-like.

Growing up, I learned a formula for prayer:

First, start with an address: “Dear God” or “Father in Heaven.”

Next, praise God: “You are so good. You are so very great.”

Thanksgiving: “Thank you for this day and all the blessings in it.”

Get my sins out of the way before asking for things: “Please forgive my sins and help me to do better.”

Petition: “Please help Grandmama get well soon. And please help me get a good grade on the chemistry test.”

Throw in some added praise for good measure: “You are so very, very great.”

Humbly: “Not my will, but your will be done.”

Name drop: “In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

This formula served me well from around kindergarten until sometime in my early 30s. I sometimes still use it when praying in public or when I’m with my three-year old.

When I’m alone, however, “the formula” is...

The Gospel of Jesus Christ is for the here and now, the nitty and the gritty. It’s for the nine o'clock staff meeting, and “what’s for dinner?” It’s for expanding waistlines and shrinking bank balances. It’s for oil changes, potty training, and “we need to have a talk.” It’s for annual reviews, expense reports, and “the doctor will see you now.”

Every once in awhile life feels exultant. Most of the time it feels like the tenth straight day of drive-thru supper. Sometimes it feels like a night in the ER.

What are the words that go through your mind as you go through life?

“I’m not __________ enough.”

“I can’t _______________.”

“What if _______________?”

The Gospel wants to give you new words for this life you’re living. Words that renew your mind and transform you from the inside out (Romans 12.2).

In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus Christ has a habit of saying the same thing over...

I’m living in a situation I never imagined I would find acceptable or even tolerable a few years ago.

My house is a mess.

As I write this, I count no fewer than 40-odd toys about the living room. A painting my son and wife started together is sloppily draped across some furniture to dry. A stack of cake supplies (my wife is a professional cake decorator) stands in the doorway to the kitchen. More toys are on the dining room table next to an empty Starbucks cup (my wife seems incapable of walking ten steps to the recycling bin).

Oh, but I feel such joy and love when I look at this mess.

I had a perfectly clean and tidy apartment when I was a neatnik twentysomething. Yes, my apartment was spotless right down to the bare walls and empty shelves.

You already get where I’m going with this, right?

The clutter that surrounds me now is a sign of life. The mess means I’m living in love.