I had my first existential crisis long before I knew what the words meant.
I was a 5-year-old in kindergarten. I remember being alone at the front of our house on Holly Hill Drive in Atlanta. Something in my little brain was trying to figure out my place in the world.
I can’t tell you why. I doubt normal 5-year-olds have such thoughts, but I seriously pondered who I was and whether I mattered. The questions hung heavy on my little heart, because I desperately needed to matter.
Suddenly, I had an answer that somehow made sense to me. I was 5 years old — and there were five people in my family — so that coincidence had to mean something. I must be important.
All of my life, I’ve experienced one crisis of this sort after another. The specific questions change, but they all mean the same thing.
Do I matter? Do I matter to you? Do I belong with you? Are you my home? Can I trust you to love me?
Moral priorities: ‘If we free the slaves, who will pick the cotton?’
Politicians have no right dictating the menu of your kid’s Happy Meal
What if Jesus was serious about commands he gave his followers?
FRIDAY FUNNIES
After chimp’s mother died, mama dog raised baby as one of her pups
Obama’s delusion about ‘explaining’ illustrates all-too-common narcissism
Being in love shows us who we can choose to be at our very best
‘One more thing’ can never bring the peace we can have right now