Man in the Gap

“You don’t need to prove anything.”

That’s what I’d say.

You don’t have to be perfect.

You don’t have to be the fixer.

You don’t need to have every answer.

You just need to show up.

You will mess up.

You will cry.

You will question everything.

But you will also see miracles.

Tiny ones.

Hidden ones.

Heartbreaking and holy ones.

And through it all, God will not let go of you.

So breathe.

You’re not the Savior.

You’re the seed planter.

And even if no one claps, heaven will.

It wasn’t the court date.

Or the paperwork.

Or the moment someone called me “Dad.”

It was when he reached for my hand in public.

Not because he had to — but because he wanted to.

That was it.

That moment cracked something open in me.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t public.

But it was real.

I realized then that being a father isn’t about biology.

It’s about being chosen — sometimes silently — by a child who has every reason not to trust you.

That’s when it hit me:

This is what God does for us.

He shows up again and again…

Until, one day, we reach back.

You’re doing everything you can to love this child…

…but they’re not loving you back.

You’ve sacrificed time, sleep, finances, freedom — and still feel like the enemy.

And in the quiet corners of your heart, something bitter starts to grow.

You start to think:

“What’s the point?”

“I’m giving so much… and getting nothing in return.”

And that’s when I remember:

Resentment grows where gratitude dies.

So I pause.

And I thank God for one thing.

Even if it’s small.

Even if it’s just: “Thank You that I didn’t lose my temper today.”

Gratitude breaks bitterness.

Every time.

It doesn’t fix the pain — but it purifies the perspective.

And reminds me that I’m not doing this for applause.

I’m doing it because He called me to love like He does.

Sometimes the hardest part of this journey isn’t the tantrums or trauma.

It’s the well-meaning comments from people who just… don’t get it.

• “Why don’t you just spank him?”
• “I could never do what you’re doing.”
• “Aren’t you worried about your real kids?”

You smile. You nod. You change the subject.

But inside, it hurts.

Because you’re not asking for applause.

You’re asking to be seen.

To be understood.

To not have to explain the sacred calling every time you walk into a room.

And that’s why community matters.

You need people who don’t need the backstory.

Who speak the same language.

Who look you in the eye and say, “Same here. Keep going.”

Jesus was misunderstood too.

So you’re in good company.

It’s hard to have a “quiet time” when the house is never quiet.

Kids yelling.

Appointments stacking up.

Caseworkers calling.

Dinner burning.

And yet, I’ve learned that God isn’t only found in silence.

He meets me at the kitchen sink.

On the drive to school.

In the hallway after bedtime when I drop to my knees — not to pray something poetic, but to whisper, “Help.”

Staying close to God isn’t about a schedule — it’s about dependence.

It’s about letting the presence of God invade the chaos, not just the calm.

Because He’s not far off.

He’s right here.

In the middle of the mess.

With you.

There are moments — real moments — when I ask myself:

• Why are we doing this?
• Is this helping anyone?
• Are we just making things harder — for them and for us?

It’s not a lack of love.

It’s the weight of the work.

It’s the slow grind of days that don’t seem to move forward.

But here’s what I hold onto in those moments:

Jesus never said this would be easy.

He said it would be worth it.

He said, “When you do it for the least of these, you do it for Me.”

And some days, that’s the only thing that keeps me going.

So yes, I question.

Yes, I wrestle.

But I don’t walk away.

Because even in the doubt… there’s still purpose.

And purpose keeps you planted.

I used to think being the “spiritual leader” meant having all the answers.

Reading devotionals out loud. Praying long prayers. Keeping everything on track.

But then foster care happened.

And I found myself exhausted, discouraged, and sometimes completely unsure of what to say to God — let alone my family.

There were nights I didn’t feel like the leader.

Nights I wasn’t.

Nights when my wife carried the prayer, the worship, the peace.

But you know what I’ve learned?

Spiritual leadership isn’t about performance.

It’s about posture.

It’s not about being the loudest in prayer.

It’s about being the first to repent.

The first to say, “Let’s invite Jesus in — even if we don’t know what to say.”

Leadership in the Kingdom looks like humility.

And God honors that every time.

To stand in the gap is to stand where no one else will.

Between brokenness and healing. Between the past and the future. Between what was and what’s possible.

It means absorbing pain without passing it on. Holding space when no one claps. Being faithful when no one notices.

It’s not heroic. It’s not glamorous.

It’s obedience. It’s fatherhood. It’s faith in motion.

To be a man in the gap is to be like Jesus. Who stood between death and life — and chose the cross anyway.

So I’ll keep standing. In the gap. In grace. In love. In Him.

• “You’re not making a difference.”
• “You’re just a babysitter.”
• “This isn’t your real child.”

Those lies hit hard. Especially on the hard days.

But they’re not truth.

Truth says:

• You’re planting something eternal.
• You’re showing love that echoes.
• You’re reflecting the heart of the Father.

It’s not about legal rights. It’s about spiritual roots.

You are a father. Not because of blood. But because you show up, over and over again.

And that matters more than you know.

Sometimes the breakthroughs happen in the cracks.

Not in therapy. Not at court. Not at church.

But in the front seat of the truck. On the walk around the block. In the middle of the night when they can’t sleep.

That’s when the walls come down. When the hard questions rise. When the quiet laughter returns.

And all it took… was being available.

One-on-one time isn’t extra. It’s essential.

Because that’s where they see they’re chosen. They’re worth the time. They’re more than the chaos.

And sometimes, one focused moment with one child… Becomes the very thing that heals them.