Do American Christians have a right to be angry for 9/11?

I’m having a Jonah moment. I recently realized I didn’t want to forgive the people who planned and executed the September 11, 2001, attacks on America. I didn’t want God to forgive them, either.

This surprised me. In the past, I’ve been able to forgive most people relatively easily. And it didn’t make much sense to me: Like most Americans, the events of 9/11 shook me, but I wasn’t personally affected as none of my loved ones were physically hurt. I didn’t even realize I was still angry about 9/11 until I came across the website Adopt-a-Terrorist for Prayer (ATFP).

How I've stopped seeing myself through other people's eyes

Sometimes a good game of kickball can be life changing. A few nights ago, several family friends got together for some late summer dessert and kickball. As the adults and older kids divided into teams, I felt a familiar sense of dread. Please don't let me humiliate myself, I prayed silently.

Athletic ability is the one gift I desperately wish I'd received. Forget patience or compassion or grace. I've always wanted to be the girl who makes the outfield back up when she comes to the plate. The team member who scores the winning run and makes a game-saving catch. The heroine who inspires my friend's teenage son to say, "You rule out there!" as he told my friend Jessica. But that's not me.

Oh, the tribulations of watching my daughters grow up!

My daughter Charlotte just got her driver's license and first car. It's been a rocky time for me. Keeping track of where she is. Making sure she doesn't use her phone while she's driving. Struggling not only to accept but also to embrace her acceleration toward independence. Worrying.

Yesterday she drove 40 miles to Barnes & Noble. Her goal was to go that far alone, to cross "the big road" into their parking lot (highways terrify her), to order a grande Earl Grey tea, to read in one of their dingy armchairs, and then to come home.

The little things that get between my husband and me

When it comes to decorating our house, my husband and I have a rule: The one who cares more about the decision gets to choose.

I made up that rule, and for more than 30 years it's worked for me—especially since my husband, Barry, never cared one way or another. However, now that Barry's retired and at home more, he suddenly cares deeply and passionately about things that never interested him before.