I feel like I'm on the verge of major breakout. Not cool. I whined about it good and plenty this morning as I readied for church. I stomped up and down the stairs countless times—which was quite the attention-getter in my knee-high, high heeled boots—utilizing my skin care products both in my bedroom and in the bathroom. Eventually, I huffed, "I guess if God cares that my forehead is about to be acne ridden, that's just tough!" Wryly, I poured myself a hasty cup of coffee. I stared into the void space and wrinkled my nose.

"I'm supposed to meet with someone tomorrow," I finally expounded to Brenda, who understands such blemish woes. But then, realizing my admittance and feeling the guilt coursing through me, I finished hastily, defensively, and properly shamed, "That's right, God has nothing to do with it."