It’s hard for me to love other people. It’s even harder for me to love myself.
I was driving home from work Monday evening and I had just angrily hung up the phone. A woman had called me from a company that did some work at my house a few years ago. I didn’t like the way the company was handling its business with me, but it was nothing personal with the woman.
The thing that annoyed me wasn’t her fault. She was just reading a script. She was doing her job. But I was in a bad mood — and I took out my frustrations on her.
I wasn’t nasty or rude, but I certainly wasn’t kind or loving.
As I drove the rest of the way down I-459 toward home, I stewed in my irritation, but my annoyance quickly turned toward myself. I wasn’t upset with that woman or her company.
I lectured myself about being a hypocrite. I berated myself about my unwillingness to live up to my values when it wasn’t convenient — when I wasn’t in the right mood.

How we live our lives can allow us to redeem dark family history
In the name of ‘fairness,’ everyone forced to pay for expensive chair lifts
As my path keeps changing, I can now admit my plans are useless
Chick-fil-A boycott misguided; tolerance has to run both ways
My heart longs for a future that’s more real to me than the dim past
If no mortal can ever be perfect, should we even try to be good?
What demons cause us to abandon one who offers what we need?