My confession is not that I feel shame about being “white,” which I do, because that’s pretty normal in my social circle. Rather, it relates to my hurt when I’m called a racist.
The Cure for a “Shame Hangover”
How I stop feeling bad about just being me.
Settling In To the Discomfort of Saying No
The onslaught of requests for money on the street and in social media, fill me with a desire to help, but also guilt, fear of judgment, and resentment. Saying yes to alleviate my discomfort, though, leaves me ineffective. So I am learning to answer from my heart rather than guilt and to love myself in the discomfort of saying no.
Fear of Hell Will Never Lead to More Love
I have an irrational, but deep-seated fear of hell that has regularly prevented me from changing beliefs and behaviors that don’t serve me. A series of conversations with Jesus, including how I don’t believe in him as God, helped me to overcome that fear and see that I am loved and loveable as I am.
How Much Love Must I Receive to Believe I Am Loveable?
I started the week in the sleepy and loving embrace of my niece and nephew. In a week of daily prayer practice God showed me moment after moment of when I was loved. How many times do I need to be shown to believe that I am loveable?
Loving the Kid, Not the Temper Tantrum
“Where do you see God’s love in all this anger?” “God’s not there. If God loves me when I behave badly, then I’ll never change.” But then I remembered loving my nephew in the midst of a tantrum. Could that apply to me?
The Shame of Anger: The Making of an Offensive T-shirt
I hadn’t seen the breakup coming. On Friday night we had dinner with his daughters and talked about summer plans and on Monday he ended it. The loss of my fantasies around the relationship led to an accounting of my failures, turning a week of grief into months of wondering what was wrong with me.
The Shame of Anger: Construction Fury
The Monday after I returned from my reclusive month of finding peace in New Mexico, I looked out my window to see a small silver truck blocking my driveway. “Damn construction crews!” It had been happening for nine months. Every. Single. Day. I tried to let it go . . . until I couldn’t.
