I have a problem. I like to be right. I've always been this way—at least as long as I can remember.
In grade school, sometimes the only thing I had to hold onto was the fact that I was right about the answer. One not so emotionally intelligent teacher gave me some advice on how to deal with bullies that called me names; she told me to tell them to "prove it." For all the bullies and for the bullied out there—you know what happened when I said "prove it." The bullies just started chanting prove it, prove it, prove it.
I learned though—that I could know the most and have at least some confidence as I went through my life. I definitely enjoyed proving people wrong—which didn't win me very many friends as a young student.
So midway through high school, I decided to completely choose my religion. I was cocky, bold, and used to getting picked on. Not such a great combination. I soon took the messages of love that were given to me by my church and turned them into messages of exclusion. I was genuinely worried about the souls of my friends, my girlfriend, and co-workers. I quickly learned as much as I could about how to evangelize everyone who was far from God (at least from my point of view.) I wore t-shirts that proclaimed my devotion to Jesus and every conversation I had with someone that didn't believe like I did was an opportunity to tell them about the "good news."
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