A little girl rode shotgun as her father drove to the grocery. Opening the glove compartment, she discovered a pack of Marlboro Lights.
“Whose are these?!”  she screamed in disbelief and disgust.

Her father calmly looked at the cigarettes and then at his daughter. “They’re mine,” he said.

Her eyes rapidly grew wide, and she gasped, “You’re going to Hell!”

The man, startled, immediately pulled the car over. He had not taught her such things, and they didn’t attend church, so he was at a loss as to the origin of this doctrine. He then turned to her and asked, “Who told you that?”

We’re driven to appear employable. We seek out BAs, internships, MBAs and JDs. Some of us, however, don’t want to work for anyone else; we’d rather set our own hours, own a business, and drive the vision of our workdays. So our ostensible options are working for others or working for ourselves. Our option is not ever to not work. The reality is that we will work. And instead the question is, for whom?

A former governor and a lobbyist approached a friend of mine, himself an influential. They sought his support for a grass-roots lobbying group focused on putting family first.

 

“And all of this is based on the Bible?” my friend asked.

“Oh, yes,” they replied.

“Then how do you interpret this scripture? ‘If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple.’ ” (Luke 14:26).

The well-intentioned pair racked their brains. Then they admitted that they didn’t understand the scripture. But their cause was good. My friend agreed.

I hate wedding receptions. I feel awkward, and the main reason is this: people won’t come right out and tell me how great I am. They won’t tell me how good-looking I am, how pleased they are at my presence, or how the party would feel terribly boring without me.

 

All I need is the simple assurance that the bridesmaids are fighting over me.

 

But they don’t say this. And I rarely have a date. And I never feel certain about my clothes or my presence. It’s rough going.