“I hate you!” my little brother wailed as we stood on the edge of our grandparents’ pool,  staring down at what had occupied the top spot on his Christmas list for the past several months. His shiny new remote-controlled monster truck lay on the tiled bottom. Thankfully, my mother stepped in to shield me from his rage for waterlogging his prized possession. He was told to forgive me because I was his sister. For all our flaws, love of family (or at least absence of hatred) was a bedrock component of our childhood home.

We bear inherent risks when we seek to please our Heavenly Father. First of all, pleasing Him will inevitably run us amok with those whom we would rather please–our human colleagues on earth. How many times has God called us to things that look strange to worldly observers?

A little girl rode shotgun as her father drove to the grocery store.  Opening the glove compartment, she discovered a pack of Marlboro Lights.

I hate wedding receptions. I feel awkward, and the main reason is this: people won’t come right out and tell me how great I am. They won’t tell me how good-looking I am, how pleased they are at my presence, or how the party would feel terribly boring without me.

A former governor and a lobbyist approached a friend of mine, himself an influential. They sought his support for a grass-roots lobbying group focused on putting family first.

We’re driven to appear employable. We seek out BAs, internships, MBAs and JDs. Some of us, however, don’t want to work for anyone else; we’d rather set our own hours, own a business, and drive the vision of our workdays. So our ostensible options are working for others or working for ourselves. Our option is not ever to not work; we will work. The question is for whom.