In the spring of 2009, I had been working to start a new church in Denver with nothing but

a couple thousand dollars, a master's in divinity, and a mechanical pencil.

I was working 60 or 70 hours a week, making flyers, writing sermons, setting up chairs,

events, and having coffee with what felt like everyone in Denver twice.

And despite my efforts, that scrappy little church just never managed to attract more than

about 30 people each Sunday. We would get one new person and another couple would move away

for graduate school. I was burnt out and exhausted. In one Sunday, when an especially low number

of people came to church, I came home afterwards feeling like a complete failure.

And my eight and ten year old kids were fighting with each other in the living room.

The phone rang and I could barely hear the person on the other end and I covered the

mouthpiece and told my kids to cut it out. On the phone was a young man from church who was

calling to tell me that he just doesn't have time to help anymore and needs to step down from

the leadership team. And I mustered everything in me to be gracious and tell him I understood and

don't worry about it. But all the muscles in my chest and neck were contracting at the effort of

it. So that by the time I hung up, I launched into my still fighting kids in a way that was far

beyond acceptable. I slammed their doors as hard as I could and I yelled at them to just fucking stop it.

I was out of control. Within the hour, I would find myself on the edge of their beds,

teary admitting that my anger had nothing to do with them and it is never okay for anyone to act

like that toward them and also asking their forgiveness. It was my worst parenting moment and I've

always secretly feared that it also is the moment that they will carry with them forever. Not the

trips I took them on, not all the times I read to them and jumped with them on our trampoline but

that one Sunday afternoon when I cursed and slammed their doors. Just last year when my daughter

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