My daughter was highlighting my hair (yes, from a box. Yes, to cover the gray that’s laying siege to my scalp) when she told me about a friend who’s not sure if she identifies herself as a Christian anymore.
As when I hear about anyone who’s deconstructing faith, my chest tightened at the sternum. It’s painful for the person, and it’s painful for those who love them.
Something beautiful happened in my family last weekend.
This is me, in San Diego, with my husband–and my oldest son, who has your back. He is one of the United States’ newest marines.
When my kids were younger, I tried my hand at writing a children’s book.
It was the story of a boy in a small town whose grandpa had a magical house: The House of Broken and Beautiful. His grandpa was beloved, though some who didn’t know him suspected him of evil.
As part of the premise of this blog, I commit to uncomfortable conversations worth having. And the onus of that falls on me—toward authenticity in the midst of my own doubt and weirdness.
So today, I’m opening the convo with something I regret.
There’s a question Jesus asks a blind man in the book of Mark that I am occasionally a little jealous of.
“What do you want me to do for you?”
I picture the man there, not seeing the hairy legs he sits in front of. Knowing what Jesus smells like, committing his voice to memory. Perhaps the man reaches out a hand, adding a fabric texture to his mental portrait.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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