Man in the Gap

We were sitting in the car, eating drive-thru fries.

Just another average day.

And out of nowhere, he asked, “Do you think God’s mad at me?”

I felt the lump in my throat instantly.

This wasn’t a behavior question.

This was a heart cry.

I took a breath and said,

“No, buddy. Not even close. God’s not mad at you — He’s madly in love with you. And so am I.”

He didn’t say anything else.

But he looked out the window and nodded — like maybe he believed it… even just a little.

That conversation reminded me why this work matters.

It’s not just about parenting — it’s about pastoring.

Not with sermons, but with fries and quiet answers to big questions.

And I think about that day often.

Because if nothing else, I want my kids to grow up knowing:

God isn’t distant.

God isn’t angry.

God is with them.

And so am I.

I grew up believing emotions were either weakness or rebellion.

If you cried, you were soft.

If you questioned something, you were disrespectful.

So when our kids showed big emotions — sadness, anger, confusion — my first instinct was to shut it down.

Not out of cruelty… but out of habit.

But one day, my son was crying over something that seemed small.

And I caught myself starting to say, “You’re fine.”

But I stopped.

And instead, I asked, “Do you want to talk about it or sit with me quietly?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

He just curled up beside me.

That moment showed me the power of presence over platitudes.

I’ve had to unlearn a lot.

To relearn that strength isn’t silence.

That healthy masculinity makes space for emotion.

That modeling vulnerability builds trust, not weakness.

God doesn’t dismiss our pain — and I shouldn’t either.

I used to think protecting meant controlling.

Control the schedule.

Control the behavior.

Control the outcome.

But the more I tried to control… the more it backfired.

The more he resisted.

The more I saw fear masquerading as defiance.

And I had to ask: Is my protection about his safety — or my comfort?

What I’ve learned is that true protection is often invisible.

It’s listening first.

It’s anticipating triggers without overreacting.

It’s letting go of battles that don’t matter — so you can show up for the ones that do.

God doesn’t force us into obedience.

He invites us into relationship.

That’s the model.

Protection isn’t about power — it’s about peace.

It’s about creating a space where a child can be fully themselves… and still fully safe.

That kind of protection?

It changes everything.

It was his birthday.

We baked the cake, wrapped the gifts, decorated the kitchen.

But when he came downstairs, he looked overwhelmed.

Not excited — anxious.

I didn’t get it at first.

But later, I learned birthdays were traumatic for him.

They reminded him of what he didn’t have.

Who didn’t call.

Who didn’t show up.

The family that was supposed to be there… and wasn’t.

We celebrated gently that year.

We gave space. We let him lead.

And that’s when I realized — holidays in foster care aren’t always joyful.

Sometimes they surface grief that kids can’t name yet.

Sometimes they hurt more than they help.

Now, we go slower.

We ask instead of assume.

We make new traditions — ones that heal, not just entertain.

Because what matters isn’t the Pinterest-perfect celebration…

It’s creating a memory that says, “You belong — even here.”

Every night, I ask the same question: “Do you want a story or a prayer?”

Sometimes the answer is both.

Sometimes it’s just “no.”

But I always ask. Because asking matters.

It started as a routine — a way to settle the chaos, to create some rhythm.

But over time, I realized it was doing more than calming him down.

It was communicating, “You’re worth my presence, even at the end of a long day.”

One night, he chose prayer.

He didn’t say much — just listened quietly.

But halfway through, he reached over and grabbed my hand.

No words. Just contact.

That was the whole breakthrough.

Bedtime isn’t just the end of the day — it’s often where trust is quietly built.

In the dark.

With a story.

Or a whispered prayer.

Or just a hand held in silence.

And every night I show up for that — even tired — I’m telling him:

“You are safe. You are seen. And I’m still here.”

I used to want to fix everything.

The behavior. The attitude. The schoolwork. The bedtime chaos.

I saw myself as a repairman — show up, diagnose, apply wisdom, move on.

But then I hit wall after wall.

Nothing was changing.

At least, not in the way I expected.

And that’s when it hit me: I’m not here to fix — I’m here to stay.

I’m here to be present.

To be predictable.

To be a safe place, not a solution center.

Healing doesn’t come through quick fixes.

It comes through presence.

Through trust built slowly. Through love that doesn’t leave.

That shift — from fixer to father — changed everything.

It freed me.

It freed them.

And it let God be the One who restores, while I simply remain faithful.

He was supposed to be in timeout.

Instead, I found him standing on the dining room table… singing worship music at the top of his lungs.

No pants. Just joy.

And I couldn’t help it — I laughed so hard I cried.

Parenting in foster care can be so serious.

So structured.

So trauma-informed and behavior-managed… that we forget to see the comedy.

Kids are wild.

Life is weird.

And sometimes, holy moments come wrapped in ridiculous ones.

That moment reminded me to lighten up.

To not let the heaviness steal the humor.

To enjoy the weird little blessings that God throws in along the way.

We’re not just raising kids.

We’re raising stories.

And sometimes… those stories are hilariously unforgettable.

I thought I was the teacher.

Turns out… I’m the student more often than not.

I’ve watched a child who came from chaos learn how to self-regulate.

I’ve seen a kid who used to punch walls now ask for a hug.

I’ve heard apologies I never expected and witnessed growth that can only be explained by God.

These kids? They’re resilient.

Not because they wanted to be… but because they had to be.

And yet — they still love.

Still try.

Still hope.

That kind of courage humbles me.

It’s taught me that grace isn’t something I dispense from a position of power — it’s something I receive daily from the ones I thought I was saving.

God is using them to sanctify me.

To soften me.

To show me that resilience isn’t about toughness — it’s about rising again… with hope in hand.

People always say, “You’re so strong.”

But they don’t see the cost of that strength.

They don’t see the silent car rides after a tough court hearing.

Or the tears wiped away in the bathroom so the kids don’t see.

Or the prayers whispered through gritted teeth at 2 a.m.

Staying strong doesn’t mean staying numb.

It means feeling deeply — and still choosing to lead with love.

I’ve learned that strength isn’t the absence of pain.

It’s the presence of purpose, even when I’m hurting.

Jesus wept. Jesus sweat blood.

And yet, He stayed on mission.

I’m learning to do the same — imperfectly.

Some days I get it wrong.

Some days I break down.

But the emotional cost?

It’s worth it.

Because these kids are worth it.

And because God doesn’t ask me to carry it all — just to carry what’s mine, and hand the rest back to Him.

He didn’t mean to say it.

It just… slipped out.

We were getting out of the car, and he turned back and said, “Hey Dad, can you—”

Then he froze. Looked down. Mumbled, “Sorry.”

But I heard it.

And it wrecked me — in the best possible way.

It wasn’t just a word. It was a shift.

A crack in the wall between us.

A sign that something deeper was forming — not forced, not required… but real.

I didn’t correct him. I didn’t make it awkward.

I just smiled and said, “Yeah, buddy. What do you need?”

Because that’s what dads do.

That moment reminded me that this work we’re doing — all the showing up, the boundaries, the prayers, the patience — it’s not invisible.

It’s being watched. Absorbed.

And slowly, over time, returned.

Being called “Dad” wasn’t about ego.

It was about trust.

And for a kid who’s lost so much, trust is sacred ground.