I really wanted to write something that would soothe me to write about it, but everything is just on my nerves.  I’m mad that the dog won’t go to the bathroom, but instead just stands out there and sniffs.  I’m annoyed that I didn’t get to the park once this weekend.  We’re out of milk.  I can’t find the bread and other things are not where I left them.  And I feel like a dumbass.

Like some kind of existential dumbass, like I’m the pastor in that joke where the other two pastors walk on the water to the shore and I’m just so sure I’m as holy as them that I get out of the boat and step onto the lake only to sink like a brick, because, of course, they were using stepping stones.  Of course they were.  They aren’t any better than me, and were I not continually at the mercy of my own insecurities, I probably could have figured that out.

What can you do?

I, for one, am going to take the advice of the Professor’s friends from the Church of God.  Pray and move.

Just keep moving.

3 thoughts on “Discomfort

  1. "…were I not continually at the mercy of my own insecurities…" I think you’ve summed up the lot of us, whether we are brave enough to admit it or not.Best,Ryan

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