However far I’ve come, it’s probably somewhere less than halfway of where I could be if I simply believed in myself.

Some doubt the Christmas story, placing it as a piece of fiction penned to perpetuate a myth. And could it be that the majesty of this story is so utterly vast that fiction is the only way that they could restrain it sufficiently to keep it from commandeering their lives?

Half of the time I think I know what I’m doing. The other half of the time I’m doubting that I really knew what I was doing the first half of the time. So that leaves me turning to God all of the time.

Could it be that questioning the existence of our purpose is in fact part of the process within which we become convinced that we have one?

Sometimes things call out to us and we know them with total certainty. Yet, the certainty eludes us and we’re left with the angst of the unknown regarding something that, in fact, we know.

I have no dream,” I repeatedly tell myself. But what I’m really telling myself is that I’m too afraid of the dream that I have to admit that I have it.