C'mon God, you know me. I know me. I know you know me. I know you know I know me. So why?

I finished that last post and I realized I hadn't said everything that was on my mind.

My little guy Sam is starting to talk a lot. The window to his personality is open, and it's a lot of fun. Of course, sometimes his utterances give us cause for concern. The other day he yelled in a grating, high-pitched voice, "Don'ta put it out wif your boots, Daddy!" This outburst caused a shiver down my spine and deep sense of dread and foreboding. No. Please. Not MY son.

Our littler guy Josh is so interesting. He smiles so much; I sometimes feel like I don't deserve to be his dad. He's pretty impressed with himself because he can now sit up by himself in his crib. He doesn't get happy about it anywhere else. Not on the floor, in the tub. But if he's in his crib, and he's sitting up, he's going beserk.

Sometimes I look at my life and what I've got: this small room with two kids, Becca, and all of the uncertainty and disappointment outside of that room and I wonder why I have this life. Would an all-knowing God really give this kind of reward to someone like me? It sounds trite, but I ask that question because I know myself well, and I'm not really able to pull the wool over my own eyes. And according to the rules of life I believe in, I'm not worthy of this life. It's not like I have this perfect life either--an anti-Brady Bunch mixed family that tries its best but doesn't always pull it off, loved-ones in crisis, financial uncertainty, and an expanding waistline. But my little room in this world is so safe, cozy, and comfortable.

So at least once every day, I have no choice but to stop and think: "I hope you're who I believe you are. I'm pretty sure I know you, and so I sometimes want to ask 'why?' But I'll just say 'thank you.'"