This month, my husband and I had a huge car repair bill and a big renewal fee for my real estate license, both due in the same week, on top of our regular monthly expenses. We are both in commission-based sales jobs, which definitely has its perks.
I sat on my bed in the attic of the little house in Nashville, wrestling with the reality that a lifelong dream was coming to an end. In the morning, I would be loading up the car to drive back home to Canada. Three months earlier, I had arrived in the city of my dreams with hopes to cut a record in the Christian music industry.
It was 1905. Seventeen-year-old Lillian Trasher stepped into the bustling editor’s office at a big-city newspaper, nervously clutching her sketchpad. Her heart beat excitedly at the flurry of activity around her as typewriters clicked and reporters scribbled furiously on notepads. Landing a lucrative job as a newspaper artist had been a long-time dream of Lillian’s.
There is an interstate here in Colorado that I really dislike driving on. It is busy almost all the time, and is known for its bad accidents. One day as I was driving on a particularly busy stretch of this road, I noticed the car next to me was getting dangerously close.
One evening recently I went out onto our front porch to water the hanging plants. I had forgotten to do it the day before, but figured they were probably okay. When I caught my first glimpse of them, I was somewhat surprised to see them looking dangerously wilted and dry.
Our culture has done a very good job of convincing us that being fearful is equivalent to being wise. After all, if we simply take a few self-protective precautions, we can have a much more protected life.