I am resisting the lie that more work will make me a better person.
— Greg Asimakoupoulos

The other day my 8 year old expressed her displeasure over the number of times church commitments pirate me away from participating in her bedtime ritual:

"It's not fair, Daddy," Kristin protested. "Can't you call the church and tell them you're busy? Please stay home with us. Let's make popcorn!"

"Tomorrow night, sweetheart," I thought aloud. "I promise. We'll have popcorn and root beer floats tomorrow. I don't think I'm busy after dinner."

Her complaint caught me by surprise. I had only recently curtailed my evening appointments to three a week. As I tried to explain the price tag of being a productive pastor, her big brown eyes puddled with tears.

"But Daddy, you're always busy!"

Ouch! That hurt. Kristin's response found an unprotected gap in my priestly armor. But her comment provided me an overdue check on reality.

Was I always busy? And if I was, why?

My daughter's appraisal, I quickly discovered, was ...