When You Beat Yourself Up for Being a Bad Christian

I sigh and examine my fingernails as my husband talks with the saleswoman. She is unable to answer a single question we have about the tan sofa we are considering on the showroom floor. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, “I don’t usually work in furniture. Adam, the regular sales person in this department, will be back tomorrow. Can I give you his card?” My husband thanks her. I sigh again and cross my arms over my chest.

“Why aren’t we getting the couch?” Rowan asks, flopping onto the ottoman with th...