I had interviewed for an assistant principal position earlier that day, and when the district number showed up on my phone, I was pretty sure I knew what was coming.

I had prayed for this job. I had worked for this job.

Honestly, I had already decorated the office in my head.

Then I heard the “not excited” voice on the other end.

“Hey...Maury.”

You know the voice. It’s the one people use when they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear. It’s softer. Slower. Somewhere in the next few sentences, you know the word “unfortunately” is coming.

And it did. I didn’t get the job. I said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

Then I sat there. And sat there.

My students had just left class, so the classroom was empty. I put my head in my hands and didn’t move. I just sat there at my desk. Eventually, the lights went out. And I still just sat there.

The lights were controlled by motion sensors, and apparently sitting completely still while questioning every decision you’ve made in your professional life isn’t enough motion to keep them on.

So there I sat.

In the dark. In my anger. In my sadness. In my disappointment.

It was appropriate.

Because that’s pretty much how I felt.

When God Doesn’t Do What I Asked

Our church is spending seven weeks studying Philippians, and this week we were in Philippians 1:12–30.

Paul was writing from prison.

He was chained to Roman guards around the clock. Those guards rotated throughout the day, which meant Paul kept getting a new person chained to him.

I’m sure the Romans thought Paul was the captive.

Paul apparently saw it differently.

“Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually advanced the gospel.” Philippians 1:12

Paul looked at chains and saw an audience.

I looked at a job rejection and saw a dark classroom.

I’m no Paul.

I was mad.

I had gone back to school and earned my master’s degree in educational administration. I had applied for administrative positions. I had interviewed. I had put in the work.

This particular position felt right.

More importantly, I had prayed about it.

A lot.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, I had confused praying about something with God agreeing to it. I wasn’t really praying, “God, Your will be done.” I was praying something closer to, “God, here’s my plan. I’d really appreciate Your signature at the bottom. Appreciate it.”

I believed we were on the same page.

We were not.

“Dad, Are You OK?”

I decided I needed to go home early that day, so I had to pick up my kids after I got the news. Brighton was old enough to sense something was wrong with his Daddy.

“Daddy, are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

I lied. I wasn’t.

He asked again.

I gave him roughly the same answer. He tilted his head and looked at me from the passenger seat of the car. He had to notice the tears in the corners of my eyes I was trying to hold back.

Kids are pretty good lie detectors when it comes to their parents. He knew.

When I got home, I had a very honest conversation with God. I told Him I was angry. I told Him why I thought I deserved the job. I reminded Him how hard I had worked, as if He had somehow missed that part.

I talked about the money.

I talked about providing for my family.

I talked about what the position would mean.

I talked about feeling overlooked.

God got all of it. He was, of course, there through it all.

I’ve learned that He can handle my honesty, even when my honesty comes in hot.

Eventually, when I ran out of things to say, I was left with a simple realization.

God had never told me yes.

I had told myself yes and expected Him to go along with it.

There’s a big difference.

The Opportunity I Couldn’t See

A couple of weeks later, another opportunity came along.

That position paid more. The schedule was better. It brought me closer to home and gave me more time with the very family I was so worried about providing for.

It also took my career in a direction I hadn’t planned.

Looking back now, I’m incredibly thankful I didn’t get the job I was sitting in that dark classroom mourning.

But I’ve also learned something since then that I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Sometimes the better job doesn’t come. Sometimes the next door doesn’t open. Sometimes God doesn’t show us three weeks later why He said no.

Paul wasn’t telling the Philippians that his imprisonment had worked out because God had freed him and given him something better.

He was still in prison. The chains were still there. The guards were still there.

Paul had simply discovered that his circumstances couldn’t stop God from working through him.

That’s different.

And it’s much harder.

What Are We Trying to Gain?

This wasn’t the first time a job forced me to think about what really mattered.

Before becoming a teacher, I worked in retail management.

I actually liked retail. I was good at it. I enjoyed solving problems and making things run smoothly. I was also making more money than I would make when I left retail to become a teacher. There were opportunities to move up and make even more.

But there was a cost.

I had been moved to a store an hour away from home. I worked on Halloween. I worked on Christmas Day. I worked on New Year’s Day. My oldest child was growing up, and too many times I was watching the highlights in photos or videos instead of being there for the moment.

If you had asked me at 25 what success looked like, financial security would have been pretty high on the list. At 48, I’m beginning to wonder if anybody ever actually feels financially secure. If they do, I’d love to meet them and perhaps borrow some money. I’m kidding. Kinda. My definition of success has changed anyway. These days I’m much more concerned with whether I’m taking care of Karen and the kids, whether I’m a man of God they can depend on, and whether my yes actually means yes and my no means no.

Am I pointing my family toward Jesus?

Those questions matter a lot more to me now. Paul puts it much more simply:

“For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” Philippians 1:21

That’s one of those verses that’s easy to put on a T-shirt and much harder to live.

Christians Should Be a Little Weird

Pastor Sam said something Sunday that made me smile.

Christians should be weird. Not that kind of weird.

We should be different.

A few weeks ago, I was at a meeting that had nothing to do with church. There was quite a bit of cursing, and eventually a discussion started getting a little out of hand.

I could feel God prodding me to speak up, but I didn’t want to be weird. But, I finally spoke up. I mentioned my faith and said that cooler heads needed to prevail.

The temperature in the room came down. What I didn’t expect was what happened afterward. That moment led to other conversations about my faith.

I didn’t go into the meeting planning to share the gospel. I didn’t have a sermon tucked in my pocket in case things got rowdy. I just tried to respond in a way consistent with what I say I believe.

Sometimes that’s all it takes.

People are watching how Christians respond when things aren’t going our way. They’re watching how we handle disappointment. They’re watching how we treat people who disagree with us. They’re watching how we respond when everybody else in the room is losing their cool.

They’re watching what happens when the lights go out.

This world doesn’t need Christians who pretend life is always wonderful.

It needs Christians with an authentic faith that still holds when life isn’t.

Temporary Things Make Terrible Masters

Paul eventually tells the Philippians:

“Just one thing: As citizens of heaven, live your life worthy of the gospel of Christ.” Philippians 1:27

Pastor Sam put it this way:

When eternity is your aim, the temporary will lose its influence over you.

I like that.

I’ve spent a lot of my life worrying about temporary things.

Money. Jobs. Titles. Whether people liked me. Whether someone thought I was successful.

I still care what people think about my character. I want people to see me as dependable. I want them to know I’m a man who follows through on what he says.

But I don’t need everybody to like me. That’s progress. Apparently God has been doing some work.

Churches aren’t immune to getting temporary things out of order either.

I once heard about a church that got into a pretty serious argument during a building project.

The issue?

Carpet.

Some people wanted to keep the same color. Others wanted a different color.

People actually became divided over it.

I don’t know what color they eventually chose, but I feel pretty confident nobody is going to arrive in heaven and say, “This is wonderful, but I really think the sanctuary looked better in burgundy.”

We can laugh at that.

Then we can go right back to fighting over our own temporary things.

Paul tells believers to stand firm in one spirit.

Stay together.

Remember what actually matters.

To Die Is Gain

Paul takes the idea even further.

“To live is Christ and to die is gain.”

That second part hits differently as I get older.

I’ve now lost three of my four grandparents. One very recently.

I miss them.

There is sadness in knowing there are conversations I can’t have right now and moments they aren’t here to see. But the reunion keeps that sadness from having the final word.

I believe I will see them again.

I also believe the grandparents I watched grow older, hurt, and experience failing health aren’t dealing with any of that anymore.

They’re whole.

That’s why Paul can talk about death the way he does.

He isn’t saying life doesn’t matter. He’s saying Jesus matters more.

Following Jesus isn’t a guarantee that He’ll make our lives better. We follow Him because He is better than life.

That changes how we look at everything else.

When Their Lights Go Out

I’ve thought several times about Brighton sitting in the car with me after I didn’t get that job.

“Daddy, are you OK?”

He saw me hurting.

My other children have and will see it too.

As much as I’d like to protect them, eventually each of them will have their own dark classroom. They’ll work for something and not get it. Someone will reject them. A plan will fall apart. They’ll pray for something and God’s answer will be no.

Maybe they’ll get the better opportunity three weeks later. Maybe they won’t.

I can’t promise them that everything will work out the way they want. I don’t want to teach them that following Jesus means it will. I want them to remember something better.

God is faithful.

He has never let me down. He’s given me answers I didn’t like. He’s allowed doors to close that I desperately wanted open. He’s taken me places I didn’t plan to go. And I’ve occasionally sat in the dark wondering what in the world He was doing.

But He’s never stopped being faithful.

That’s what I hope my children see when they watch me follow Jesus.

Not a dad who never struggles. Not a dad who always gets it right. A dad who keeps following when he doesn’t understand.

Because when the lights go out, Jesus is still Jesus.

And He is still worth following.

Live It

Think about something in your life right now that isn’t going the way you planned.

Maybe it’s a closed door, a disappointment, a difficult relationship, a career setback, or a prayer that hasn’t been answered the way you hoped.

Be honest with God about it. He can handle the frustration, disappointment, and questions.

Then ask a different question.

Instead of only asking, “God, when are You going to change this?” ask, “God, how can You use me in this?”

You may eventually understand why the door closed.

You may not.

Either way, your circumstances don’t have to keep Christ from working through you.

And take a few minutes to think about what has the most influence over you right now. What’s your chain?

Money? Success? Comfort? Approval? Fear? A title? Being right?

Ask God to help you hold temporary things with a looser grip and keep eternity in view.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 1:12–14, 21, 27

Talk About It:

1. Have you ever been really disappointed when something didn’t happen the way you wanted? What happened?

2. Can you think of a time God used something difficult to bring about something good?

3. What do you think it means when Paul says, “To live is Christ”?

4. How should following Jesus make us different from the people around us?

5. When someone watches how we handle a hard situation, what do we want them to learn about our faith?

Pray:

Thank God for being faithful when life goes according to plan and when it doesn’t. Ask Him to help your family recognize opportunities to point others toward Jesus, especially during difficult circumstances. Pray that each of you would hold temporary things loosely and live in a way that shows others that Jesus is worth following.

In its place was a biblical marketplace.

There were tents and cardboard roofs set up around the room. Tables were covered with food from the Middle East. There were stations where we could make bookmarks and other crafts. Some of our teachers even dressed in costumes to make the whole thing feel a little more real.

We had been studying the Bible and memorizing the books of the Bible, and this was our reward. For a twelve-year-old kid in 1989, it was pretty impressive.

At the end, they gave each of us a Bible. Mine was a New King James Version with my name on it. Inside were the names of my Sunday School teachers.

I still have it.

I don’t remember every Sunday School lesson those teachers taught me. I couldn’t tell you what we studied the Sunday before the marketplace or the Sunday after it. But prior to that year, I remember Martha Penfield. I remember Pat McGehee. I remember them creating a place that I didn’t want to miss. I remember teachers who took the time to turn a room into something a twelve-year-old boy would still be talking about nearly forty years later.

At the time, I just thought it was cool. Looking back, I see something more.

God was using people.

The People Along the Way

Our entire church started a seven-week study of Philippians this week. The first message, from Philippians 1:1–11, was called A Church Worth Thanking God For.

Paul certainly had one.

He loved the church at Philippi, and when he thought about those people, he thanked God for them.

“I give thanks to my God for every remembrance of you.” Philippians 1:3

I have people like that too.

My Mama is near the top of the list.

Sunday mornings growing up meant Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for breakfast. They’re the same cinnamon rolls I make for my family on Christmas morning now. After breakfast, we loaded into the van and headed into town. Sunday School started at 9:45. Worship started at 11.

And we went.

There wasn’t much discussion about whether we felt like going to church that week.

Church was what the Wood family did.

There wasn’t children’s church either, outside of a few minutes when the kids might be invited to the front for a short lesson from Brother Paul Woodford. We sat in the service with the adults. We heard the sermon with everyone else.

Church wasn’t limited to Sunday mornings either. My brothers and I were involved in choir and dramas, and if we had lines to learn, Mama made sure we learned them.

We would sit somewhere in the house with our scripts. She would read everybody else’s parts while we practiced ours.

Then we would do it again.

And again.

Sometimes there were a lot of lines. Somehow, we always knew them when we needed to.

I didn’t understand what she was building at the time. Neither did I understand what those Sunday School teachers were building.

They were helping make church more than somewhere I had to go.

They were helping make it somewhere I wanted to be.

Someone Standing in the Chair Beside Me

After high school, my faith had to become mine.

I changed churches and reconnected with Kevin McGehee. I also met Pat Steward, who became like a second Mama to me.

Kevin became something like the big brother I never had.

I was going through a difficult time, and he gave me room to vent. More importantly, he kept pointing me back to God and telling me to cast my cares and worries on Him.

He also gave me opportunities to serve.

I helped with the youth. I went on mission trips. I attended classes and eventually taught some myself.

A lot of what I do today grew out of those years.

Kevin gave an illustration in one of those classes that I’ve never forgotten.

Imagine you’re standing on a chair and someone else is standing on the floor. Try to pull that person up onto the chair with you.

It’s difficult.

Now let that person try to pull you down.

That’s much easier.

His point was that we needed to be careful about the people we allowed to have the greatest influence in our lives. When it came to dating and marriage, find someone standing on the chair beside you. Find someone who will encourage you to stay there.

I was dating Karen at the time, or at least I think I was. It’s been a while.

But I remember immediately thinking the illustration described us.

When we were dating, Karen and I would leave Bible verses for each other underneath the windshield wipers of our cars. We’d put them in envelopes for the other person to find.

Yes, it was encouragement. It was also Christian flirting.

Whatever works. I still have those notes in a box.

We didn’t use words like sanctification while sliding envelopes underneath windshield wipers. We were just trying to encourage each other and keep Jesus exactly where He needed to be in our relationship.

Smack dab in the middle.

Twenty-six years after we started dating and twenty years into marriage, we’re still trying to do that.

We’ve gone from encouraging each other as two young people to raising four children together. We’ve walked through good seasons and hard ones. We’ve made mistakes. We’ve learned. We’ve grown.

I’m not the same man Karen started dating. She’s not the same woman I started dating.

We’re better and closer to Jesus. Thank goodness.

The Work Isn’t Finished

One of the main verses from Sunday’s sermon was:

“I am sure of this, that he who started a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6

That’s sanctification.

God is working on us throughout our lives, making us more like Jesus.

I can look back and see places where He’s changed me.

When Karen and I married in 2006, I was working in retail. It didn’t take much for something going wrong to stress me out. Plans changing could frustrate me pretty quickly.

I still don’t particularly enjoy plans changing. Let’s not get carried away with how sanctified I’ve become.

But I’ve mellowed.

I’ve learned that fewer things are worth getting worked up over. I’ve learned there aren’t nearly as many hills worth dying on as I once thought.

One of the phrases my family hears from me all the time now is, “I can only control myself.” You’ve heard me say it more than once in my writings.

That guy was not around in 2006.

But…

I’m thankful he’s here now.

I’m also very aware that God still has plenty of work to do.

I got a pretty good reminder of that Sunday morning.

We Don’t Go Down That Hallway Anymore

For eighteen years, Karen and I have had a child somewhere in the birth to preschool to lower elementary area at church.

Sunday morning, I walked Grayson toward his class just like I have countless times before.

He went toward his old classroom, and I stood outside watching through the glass wall to make sure he got where he needed to be.

Then it hit me. He wasn’t supposed to be there.

He had moved up.

Apparently, neither one of us got the mental memo that we already knew about.

I went back and got him. He was about as surprised as I was, and we found where he was supposed to go.

Later, I told Karen what had happened.

That’s when the bigger realization sank in.

For the first time in eighteen years, we don’t have a child on that hallway anymore. He was the last one.

Next Sunday will be different. We won’t even turn that direction.

Meanwhile, Brighton just turned eighteen and is starting his senior year of high school. Chloe is beginning her last year of middle school. Sophie is beginning her last year of elementary school.

Everybody is moving up.

And Dad better keep growing too.

From Helicopter to Lighthouse

The father Brighton needs at eighteen isn’t the same father he needed at eight.

We’re having a lot more adult conversations now.

I didn’t have many men giving me words of wisdom when I was eighteen, and I want things to be different for him. I’m trying to let him spread his wings while making sure he knows there is always a safe place to land and learn.

I’m not really a helicopter parent as much anymore. I’m trying to be more of a lighthouse. I can’t fly around controlling where my children go or every decision they make. I can’t make them follow Jesus. I can’t choose who they become.

But, I can point them toward Him.

I can help them recognize some of the rocks ahead because I’ve hit a few of them myself. I can be there when life gets rough.

And something interesting has started happening with Brighton. He’s sharpening me too.

He reads and studies biblical and Christian writings more than I do sometimes. He’ll tell me something he’s been studying, and we’ll talk about it. He brings what he’s learning. I bring some of what God has taught me through living it.

Proverbs 27:17 says, “Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens another.”

Sometimes that’s exactly what happens between us.

A Year From Now

At the end of Sunday’s message, Pastor Sam talked about an old Dodge Ram that belonged to his dad who passed away several years ago.

It has more than 250,000 miles on it. It has bumps and bruises. The air conditioner doesn’t work. There are plenty of reasons to replace it, but the truck means something to him because of the memories attached to it, including driving it while his dad was going through cancer treatments.

The truck is still the truck. Sam isn’t the same Sam who drove it all those years ago. Then he challenged us to think about our lives with Christ.

A year from now, Jesus will not have changed. But we should have.

That stuck with me.

A year from now, I want to be closer to Jesus than I am today. I want to know God’s Word better than I do today. I want to be more focused on others than I am today. I want to be a better husband to Karen and the father my children need for whatever stage comes next. I want to take the opportunities God gives me to write, speak, and tell people what He has done in my life. I hope a year from now I can look back and see that God did some work on me.

Because He isn’t finished. When I look back at the work He’s already done, I see His fingerprints everywhere.

But I see a lot of other fingerprints too. Sunday School teachers who turned a classroom into a biblical marketplace. A Mama who made cinnamon rolls and made sure three boys got to church. People like Kevin and Ms. Pat who invested in a young man and gave him somewhere to serve. A young woman who left Bible verses underneath my windshield wipers and eventually became my wife. Four children who have given me plenty of reasons to grow and occasionally shown me the places where I still need to.

God alone does the saving. God alone can change a heart.

But I’m thankful He gives us people to walk alongside us while He’s doing the work.

Paul had people like that in Philippi.

I have them too.

And when I remember them, I thank my God.

Live It

Take a few minutes this week and think about the people God has used in your walk with Him.

Maybe it was a Sunday School teacher whose name you haven’t thought about in years. Maybe it was a parent or grandparent who quietly made faith part of the rhythm of your home. Maybe it was a pastor, friend, spouse, sibling, or mentor who stood beside you when you needed someone.

Thank God for them. Then, if you still can, tell them.

After that, ask a harder question: Am I allowing God to continue His work in me?

Don’t compare yourself to somebody else. Look at your own walk. Think about who you were a year ago. Where has God changed you? Where does He still have some work to do?

And finally, look around.

Whose story might God be using you in right now?

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 1:3–6 and Proverbs 27:17

Talk About It:

1. Who is someone God has used to help you grow closer to Him? What did that person do?

2. What is one way you can see that God has changed you over the past year?

3. What is one area where you want God to help you grow during the next year?

4. How can our family do a better job of sharpening and encouraging one another?

Pray:

Thank God by name for some of the people He has placed in your lives. Ask Him to continue the good work He has begun in each of you and to help your family encourage one another as you grow closer to Jesus.

It wasn’t anything fancy, but to me it was perfect. It had a black pinstripe down the side, black vents on the hood, and every weekend I had a routine.

I’d back it out from under the carport so it sat on the slope of our driveway. I’d fill a little blue bucket with soapy water and start at the top. I had a brush for the lower panels where the road grime and tar collected, and I even cleaned underneath the spoiler. Once it was washed and dried, I’d move inside. I’d get down on my hands and knees, vacuum under the seats, wipe down every piece of plastic with Armor All, and make the dashboard shine. By the time I was finished, that Mustang looked just about as good as the day I bought it.

Of course, that was before kids.

Back then I had time.

Those weekends weren’t really about washing a car. They gave me a chance to slow down, think, pray, or sometimes just enjoy the quiet. Looking back, I think that’s what I missed the most. The Mustang represented a season of life that eventually gave way to something even better.

Then Karen and I got married.

About a year and a half later, Brighton came along, and a two-door sports car gave way to a four-door family car. Mustangs are not really built for car seats, family grocery runs, and strollers. So we traded it for something bigger. I have never regretted that decision.

I loved being a husband. I loved becoming a dad. Looking back now, I wouldn’t trade my family for a garage full of sports cars.

Still, I missed that Mustang.

Maybe it wasn’t even the car I missed. Maybe it was what it represented. It reminded me of a season of life when I had time to slow down, wash the car, listen to music, and think about absolutely nothing. Those days eventually gave way to soccer, tennis, and flag football practices, church activities, and family vacations. I wouldn’t change any of that for the world, but every once in a while my mind wandered back to those days.

That’s probably why I started talking about owning a 1982 Pontiac Firebird.

If you grew up in the eighties, you already know where this is going. Knight Rider was one of my favorite shows growing up. My brothers and I loved watching Michael Knight drive KITT around every week. My middle brother, Sean, had already claimed the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard, so the Firebird became my dream car.

Every now and then I would mention finding one.

Karen would smile and gently remind me that it was an older car, it wasn’t practical for a growing family, and it really didn’t make much sense.

The funny thing is, I agreed with her.

I wasn’t secretly saving money to buy one. I wasn’t searching classified ads every night. I was simply enjoying the idea. Talking about it let me revisit a part of my childhood for a few minutes. Deep down, I already knew it probably wasn’t going to happen.

Years later, Karen and I were sitting in a marriage study when the speaker made a comment that caught both of our attention. He talked about how husbands often have dreams they know may never become reality. What hurts isn’t giving up the dream. What hurts is hearing someone they love tell them the dream is doesn’t make sense before they’ve even had a chance to enjoy it.

During our group discussion, several wives turned and asked their husbands if they had ever felt like one of their dreams had been dismissed.

Karen looked at me and asked the same question.

I smiled and nodded, telling her about the Firebird.

She immediately apologized.

She wasn’t being defensive. She genuinely had no idea that was how I felt. The truth is, I wasn’t upset with her. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. Everything she had said over the years made perfect sense. We had small children. A twenty-year-old sports car wasn’t exactly the wisest purchase for our family of four.

What that conversation did was open a window into how each of us was thinking.

She realized I wasn’t asking for permission to buy a Firebird.

I realized she wasn’t trying to crush a dream.

She was trying to protect our family.

That conversation changed something.

Fast forward to the past few months.

I’ve been looking for another vehicle. If you’ve talked to me recently, you know the search has been all over the map. Jeeps. Pickup trucks. Dodge Challengers. Chevy Camaro Super Sports. At one point I was looking at a 2013 Camaro with the little “mail slot” in the front grille. Karen laughed and said it would be the perfect place for a Knight Rider light. She remembered.

And that made me smile.

Somewhere along the way she had learned my language.

Every time I asked her opinion, she simply said, “You get what you want.”

Whenever I brought up practical concerns, she helped me think through them instead of shutting the conversation down. She reminded me that Brighton would soon be driving my old car, so we wouldn’t always need six seats anymore. Instead of telling me why something wouldn’t work, she helped me think about what could.

In the end, I didn’t buy a Camaro or Challenger.

I bought a black Jeep Wrangler with big tires. I guess this Batman needed a Tumbler, too.

The kids absolutely love it. Grayson will walk outside and just sit in it while it’s parked in the driveway. I smile every time I look out the window and see it sitting there.

The other afternoon I was outside installing another accessory on it when Karen came outside.

She smiled and said, “I’m so glad you’re out here enjoying this. It reminds me of when we were dating and you would wash the Mustang. You know you’re my favorite person, right?”

Of course I know.

That one sentence meant more to me than any accessory I’ll ever bolt onto that Jeep.

As I thought about it later, I realized something else.

I’ve been a dream killer too.

Karen’s dreams involve traveling. More than once she has brought up places she’d love for us to visit. My first response used to be, “We can’t do that. We can’t leave the kids.” That’s not cheap.”

I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I thought I was protecting our family. Looking back, I can see how quickly I dismissed something that meant a lot to her.

Somewhere along the way, I quit saying, “We can’t,” and started asking, “How can we make this happen?”

That simple change made all the difference.

Over the years we’ve watched some of those dreams become memories. We’ve gone snorkeling with sea turtles on the beaches of Puerto Rico, driven the winding roads of Ireland, and watched the sunset in Hawaii. Karen does a lot of the planning, but I’ve learned to enjoy planning with her. Months before a trip, we’ll start watching airfare, looking for hotel deals, and figuring out how to make it fit our budget. Half the fun is dreaming together before we ever pack a suitcase.

None of those trips happened overnight. They happened because the conversation changed.

I wasn’t trying to crush her dream.

I was trying to protect our family.

Sound familiar?

Sometimes we become dream killers because we love the person standing in front of us. We don’t want them to be disappointed. We don’t want them to get hurt. We don’t want them chasing something that isn’t realistic.

Our intentions may be good.

Our words still matter.

Proverbs 12:25 says, “Anxiety weighs down the heart, but a kind word cheers it up.”

There are plenty of things in life we can’t fix. We can’t promise every dream will come true. We can’t always make the finances work or change the season of life we’re in. Sometimes all we can do is encourage one another, pray together, and trust God with the future.

No one wants to hear their dream is unattainable.

Most people already know that.

That’s why they’re called dreams.

As husbands and wives, we’re called to love one another with our words. Ephesians 4:29 reminds us to use words that build people up and give grace to those who hear them. Sometimes building up means asking another question instead of giving another reason something won’t work. Sometimes it means listening a little longer before offering a solution.

That doesn't mean we ignore reality or pretend every dream will come true. It means we choose to encourage before we dismiss, to listen before we solve, and to ask, "How could we?" before saying, "We can't."

Looking back, I don't think God expects husbands and wives to make every dream come true. I do think He calls us to become the safest person in the world for our spouse to dream with. After all, there is no one on this earth I'd rather spend time with than Karen. If she has a dream, I want to be the first person helping her think through it. I know she'll do the same for me. That's the kind of marriage we're still building, and by God's grace, I think we're both enjoying the journey a whole lot more.

If this story encouraged you, would you share it with someone you love?

Sometimes one conversation can change the direction of a marriage.

Share

Subscribe now

One day he casually said, “You’re eating lunch with me and my wife today.”

To be honest, it caught me off guard. We had only known each other for a week or two. Going to someone’s house for lunch wasn’t something I expected during my training. Still, I was raised to be polite, and besides, he certainly didn’t have to invite me. I thanked him, and we headed to his house.

We walked through the side door into a small kitchen where his wife greeted me with a smile and asked if I was hungry. I was nineteen years old. That answer was always yes.

A few minutes later she brought us lunch. It was a country ham sandwich with thick slices of tomato and a decent bit of mayonnaise.

Now I need to confess something. I have never been a big fan of country ham. Growing up on a farm, that probably sounds strange, but it has always been a little too salty for me. Fresh tomatoes have never been my thing either. Honestly, tomatoes of any kind are not on my favorite foods list.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind them cooked down into spaghetti sauce or turned into ketchup, but biting into a thick slice of tomato has never appealed to me. As for mayonnaise, I tolerate it a lot better now than I did back then.

In other words, she had unknowingly fixed me just about the last sandwich I would have picked for myself. I quickly began giving myself a pep talk in my head.

“You can do this, Maury.”

I picked it up and immediately noticed a huge slice of tomato. It wasn’t one of those little slices that gets lost on a sandwich. This thing was thick. Anyone who loves tomatoes would have thought they had hit the jackpot. I did not feel like I had won anything.

I smiled, took a bite, and started chewing.

My strategy was simple. I chewed until I could swallow the bite with a drink.

Speaking of the drink, she had asked if I wanted a Coke. I happily said yes. She brought me a tall glass with plenty of ice.

It was Diet Coke. I knew it the second I took a sip.

At that point I had a decision to make. I could think about everything that wasn’t the way I liked it, or I could simply appreciate the fact that an older couple had invited a young delivery driver they barely knew into their home for lunch.

So I ate every bite of that sandwich. Every bite. Down to the last piece of tomato.

I drank every drop of that Diet Coke.

When she kindly asked if I wanted another sandwich, I smiled and said, “No, thank you. I’m good. Thank you, though.”

Looking back, I realized pretty quickly that the lunch was never about the food. She was probably serving me the same lunch she had been making for her husband for years. It reminded me of my grandparents. Grandma fixed lunch for my Paw Paw almost every day. There was something familiar about it. They weren’t trying to impress me. They were simply sharing what they had. They were sharing a portion of their day together.

I’ve thought about that lunch many times over the years.

Jesus once sent His disciples into towns to minister, and He gave them an interesting instruction. In Luke 10, He told them that when someone welcomed them into a home, they were to stay there and “eat and drink what they offer you” (Luke 10:7-8).

I’ve always liked that picture.

Jesus knew hospitality wasn’t really about the menu. It was about the people opening their home. Receiving someone’s kindness with gratitude honors the heart behind the invitation.

I wonder how often we miss that.

We get so focused on what we want that we overlook someone’s generosity. We critique the meal, the gift, the timing, or the circumstances instead of simply saying, “Thank you.”

I’m glad nineteen-year-old Maury didn’t decide to tell that sweet lady everything he didn’t like about her lunch.

Instead, I got to enjoy something much better than a sandwich. I experienced kindness.

I honestly don’t remember much about delivering prescriptions during those weeks. I don’t remember many of the addresses or even many of the deliveries.

I do remember that little kitchen. I remember a country ham sandwich with a tomato that seemed way too thick. I remember a tall glass of Diet Coke.

Most of all, I remember an older couple who made room at their table for a young man they barely knew.

Funny how the things we remember most aren’t always our favorite meals.

Sometimes they’re simply the moments when someone made us feel welcome.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit.

Have you ever had someone show you kindness in an ordinary way that you still remember years later? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

If this article encouraged you, consider sharing it with someone who has a gift for making people feel welcome.

Share

This Sunday’s sermon came from Colossians 3:23–24, verses many of us have heard countless times:

“Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people, knowing that you will receive the reward of an inheritance from the Lord. You serve the Lord Christ.” Colossians 3:23-24

On the surface, that seems like a pretty straightforward command. Work hard. Serve God. Do your best. But as I listened to the sermon and discussed it with our Life Group, I realized these verses aren’t really about what we do. They’re about why we do it.

Our pastor used two illustrations that immediately connected with the congregation. He talked about beanbag Christians and high chair Christians.

A beanbag Christian enjoys all the blessings that come with following Jesus. They appreciate the grace of God, the fellowship of the church, and the encouragement of other believers. They’re comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable. They love attending church, but they’re always too busy when it’s time to serve. As soon as he described that picture, there were smiles and a few knowing laughs around the room because we’ve all seen it before. Just like a beanbag, we get nice and cozy and do not want to move from our spot.

It reminded me of the old story of the Little Red Hen. None of the animals wanted to help plant the wheat, grind the flour, or bake the bread, but when everything was finished, they were first in line to enjoy the meal. If we’re honest, churches can sometimes look the same way.

You’ve probably heard the saying that twenty percent of the people do one hundred percent of the work. I don’t know if those numbers are accurate, but every time I’ve heard someone say it, people nod their heads. Most of us have also met “Not Me.” In our family of six, “Not Me” is practically our fifth child.

“Who left this mess?”

“Not me.”

“Who’s taking out the trash?”

“Not me.”

It’s funny around our house, but it becomes a problem when nobody takes ownership. Six people can make a mess in a hurry, and if everyone assumes someone else will take care of it, the mess only gets bigger.

The other picture was the high chair Christian. These are people who are always busy. They volunteer. They attend every service. They check every spiritual box. From the outside, everything looks exactly as it should. The problem is that somewhere along the way, serving becomes duty instead of devotion.

Adrian Rogers once described what a church full of Pharisees would look like. They would attend every service, give faithfully, volunteer constantly, avoid the obvious sins, and still be lost. Jesus’ strongest rebukes were not aimed at tax collectors or fishermen. They were aimed at religious people who had mastered the appearance of holiness while neglecting the condition of their hearts.

That’s what hit me the most about Sunday’s message. Duty and devotion can look almost identical from the outside. Two people can be serving in the exact same ministry, doing the exact same task, and God sees two completely different hearts.

There have been Sundays when I went to church simply because that’s what I do on Sundays. Then there have been Sundays when I walked through the doors praying that God would speak to me. The church didn’t change. The people didn’t change. Even the sermon didn’t change. The only thing that changed was my heart.

The same thing happens at home.

I’ll be honest—I don’t enjoy cleaning the kitchen. If I walk in and see dishes piled up after a long day, it’s hard to get excited about grabbing the sponge. But if Karen isn’t feeling well, something changes. I’m still wiping the same counters and loading the same dishwasher, but now I’m doing it because I love her. The task is exactly the same. My motivation is completely different.

A few weeks ago I spent a good part of a hot day staining our deck. Let’s be real. I really didn’t care what color the deck was. It looked fine to me before I started. But Karen enjoys sitting outside, and I knew it would make her happy. It was hot. It was tedious. My back reminded me of every board I stained. Yet every time she comes inside after sitting on the deck, she thanks me.

I didn’t stain the deck because I love projects.

I stained the deck because I love my wife.

That’s the difference between duty and devotion.

I think about that at work too. Every day I help people solve technology problems. Some requests take only a few minutes. Others require a lot more patience. I’ve always tried to treat every person with the same respect and urgency because each one matters. Over the years I’ve even taken on projects no one asked me to do simply because I knew they would make someone else’s job easier.

Sometimes people noticed.

Sometimes someone else received the credit.

I’d be lying if I said that never bothered me. It does. But then I’m reminded that Colossians says I’m not ultimately working for people’s approval. I’m working for the Lord. His opinion carries a lot more weight than anyone else’s.

If I retired tomorrow, I hope people wouldn’t remember the software I supported or the projects I completed. I hope they’d simply say, “Maury was always willing to help.”

That’s the reputation I want.

The same thing happens at church. Brighton and I usually serve after the final service each Sunday. Most people are heading home while we’re stacking chairs, cleaning up, or driving staff members to their cars on the golf cart. Those aren’t glamorous jobs, but they’ve become some of my favorites. We’ve gotten to know staff members we probably never would have talked with otherwise, and every week I’m reminded that no job is beneath someone who follows Jesus.

After all, our Savior washed feet.

As we talked through the sermon in Life Group, someone brought up the idea of character. That’s really what all of this comes down to. Character is who you are when nobody is watching. It’s doing the right thing even if no one notices. It’s serving even if no one thanks you. It’s living with integrity because you know God sees what no one else does.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that being comes before doing.

Jesus didn’t tell His disciples to try harder to produce fruit. He told them to abide in Him. A branch doesn’t stay alive by working harder. It stays alive by staying connected to the vine.

I’ve noticed that’s how my own relationship with God has changed over the years, especially after becoming a husband and father. I don’t wait until a scheduled prayer time to talk with Him anymore. If something good happens, I thank Him. If something difficult happens, I ask Him for wisdom and help. I try to make sure my thank you’s outweigh my help me’s because healthy relationships aren’t built only around emergencies.

If my children kept the house spotless but never wanted to spend time with me, I’d be heartbroken. I’d much rather have a messy house filled with conversation than a spotless one filled with silence. I have to believe our Heavenly Father feels the same way. Before He wants our service, He wants our hearts.

As I finish writing this article, I’m sitting in our bonus room while Grayson plays video games. I’m not playing. I’m not even talking very much. I’m just sitting here with him because he asked me not leave the room after I got done playing a little.

After a while I asked, “Buddy, why did you want me in here if we’re not really doing anything?”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, he answered, “I just like your company.”

I smiled because I immediately thought about God.

So much of my Christian life has been spent asking, “Lord, what do You want me to do?”

Maybe, before He asks us to do anything, He’s simply saying, “Come spend some time with Me.”

The more time we spend with Him, the more our hearts begin to change. Serving stops feeling like an obligation and starts becoming a privilege. We no longer clean the kitchen because we have to. We no longer volunteer because someone guilted us into it. We no longer go to church simply because it’s Sunday.

We do those things because we’ve spent time with Jesus, and loving Him naturally changes the way we love and serve others.

That’s the difference between duty and devotion.

If this article encouraged or challenged you today, would you do me a favor?

❤️ Tap the heart if it resonated with you.

📤 Share it with someone who might need the reminder that God cares just as much about why we serve as how we serve.

📬 And if you’re not already subscribed, I’d love to have you join the Grit & Wit community. Every Tuesday I share practical, biblical encouragement for faith, family, and everyday life.

Thanks for reading. I’m grateful you’re here.

This week, we’re talking about messy rooms, faithful stewardship, and the surprising way God often uses our children to teach us lessons about our own hearts.

After you finish reading, don’t skip the Dinner Table Devotional at the end. It’s designed to help your family laugh together, open God’s Word, and have a meaningful conversation about what it means to be faithful with the little things.

I’m not saying one of my daughters is training for a hoarding championship, but if there were regional qualifiers, she’d be running preliminary heats with confidence and a snack wrapper in each hand.

Karen and I say, “Clean your room,” and they hear, “Gently shove items toward corners and hope no one checks under the bed or any other furniture.”

Let’s talk about clothes. Clothes in the closet? Nope. Clothes in the drawers? Not really. Clothes everywhere else—on the makeup table, draped over a chair, stuffed inside a reusable shopping bag they’ve apparently named “Laundry Stacy”? Absolutely.

And don’t get me started on bedding. We ask them to strip their beds so the sheets can be washed. They comply. They do not, however, even consider the second half of that process. Apparently, Mama and Daddy are the Linen Fairies, who flit in overnight making beds with fresh sheets and a song in our hearts.

We are not singing.

We are tired.

Then there are the dishes. There are glasses everywhere, with differing levels of water in them. I am not sure if they think the aliens from Signs are coming, but that room is the last place those aliens would want to be.

Eventually, I resort to my system. I walk into the room, slowly turn in a circle like I’m surveying a crime scene, and then, like a frustrated tornado, throw everything into one giant pile in the middle of the floor.

“Put it where it belongs.”

It doesn’t get to that point much, but it works at those level 10 days.

The funny thing is that every time I do it, they look at me as if this has never happened before. As if I’m some unreasonable visitor who has burst into their perfectly peaceful sanctuary. How dare I interrupt their carefully curated ecosystem of hoodies, hair ties, and half-finished water bottles?

I explain—again—that if they would simply pick up the little messes as they happen, they wouldn’t have to spend part of every weekend cleaning a disaster. They nod. They agree. They even assure me they understand.

Then I leave.

Ten minutes later I return to discover the giant pile has somehow reproduced into four smaller piles because they’re “organizing.”

Bless their hearts.

And I mean that in the way only Southerners can.

The truth is, I don’t really enjoy these conversations. After working all week, I don’t want to spend my free time cleaning up a mess I didn’t make. More than that, though, I’m not trying to raise children who simply know how to clean a bedroom. I’m trying to raise adults who understand stewardship, self-discipline, and gratitude for what God has entrusted to them.

I tell my kids something that they’ve probably grown tired of hearing: “Your bedroom is your practice home.”

One day that room may become a dorm room, an apartment, or a house of their own. Maybe one day there will be a spouse. Maybe children. Learning to care for what God has given you doesn’t begin the day you get the keys to your first home. It begins with the room you have today.

Jesus said, “Whoever is faithful with very little is also faithful with much” (Luke 16:10).

The more I thought about that, the more I realized this lesson wasn’t just for my kids.

My spiritual life can start looking a lot like one of those bedrooms.

I don’t always remove the things that don’t belong. Sometimes I simply move them around.

Instead of dealing with pride, I justify it.

Instead of confessing bitterness, I bury it.

Instead of repenting of a sinful habit, I hide it somewhere no one else can see.

The room looks different.

But it isn’t cleaner.

One thought kept coming back to me as I wrote this.

We don’t repent. We relocate.

The problem is that when we hide sin, we still know exactly where we put it. We may fool everyone else, but we never fool ourselves, and we certainly never fool God.

Jesus confronted the Pharisees about this very thing. “Now you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside you are full of greed and evil” (Luke 11:39). The outside looked respectable. The inside was another story.

James gives us the remedy: “But be doers of the word and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves” (James 1:22).

That’s the challenge, isn’t it? We can hear truth. We can agree with truth. We can even organize truth into neat little piles in our minds.

But until we obey it, nothing has really changed.

Thankfully, God is far more patient than I am standing in the middle of a messy bedroom. He lovingly points out the areas that need attention, not to shame us, but to help us grow. He wants more than a cleaned-up appearance. He wants transformed hearts.

So maybe this week isn’t about having the cleanest room in the house.

Maybe it’s about asking God to point out the pile we’ve been stepping around, the one we’ve convinced ourselves isn’t really a problem anymore.

Because whether it’s a bedroom or a heart, peace usually begins when everything is finally put where it belongs.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read Together

• James 1:22

• Luke 16:10

• Luke 11:39

Talk About It

1. Why is it easier to make a mess than to clean one up?

2. What responsibilities has God given each person in our family?

3. Why do you think Jesus says being faithful in little things matters?

4. Have you ever kept putting off something you knew needed to be done? What happened?

5. What does it mean to “relocate” sin instead of repenting of it?

6. Is there an area of your life where you’ve been hiding something instead of asking God to help you remove it?

7. What is one small act of faithfulness you can practice this week?

Live It

Choose one thing you’ve been putting off this week. Maybe it’s cleaning your room, apologizing to someone, spending time with God, or taking care of a responsibility you’ve ignored. Don’t just think about it. Do it.

Pray Together

Father, thank You for every blessing You’ve entrusted to us. Help us to be faithful with the little things because they prepare us for bigger responsibilities. Show us where we’ve been hiding sin instead of dealing with it. Give us hearts that are quick to obey and homes that honor You. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Enjoyed this article?

If it made you laugh, challenged your thinking, or reminded you that God often teaches us through everyday moments, I’d love for you to stick around.

📬 Subscribe so you never miss a Tuesday article or a Saturday note.

Subscribe now

🔄 Share this with a parent whose family has an ongoing “clean your room” discussion.

Share

💬 Leave a comment: What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever found while helping your kids clean their room?

Share

Join me Thursday at 7:30 p.m. CT for Thursday Night Live. We'll continue the conversation, and I'll answer your questions.

One unexpected phone call. A strange pain. A conversation that doesn’t go quite the way you expected. Before long, your imagination has filled in all the blanks, and somehow you’ve convinced yourself that the worst-case scenario is no longer a possibility but an inevitability.

I know that feeling because I’ve lived it.

Years ago, Karen and I experienced our very first parenting panic. What started as a penny-sized spot on our three-year-old son’s leg sent us racing to Franklin, praying the whole way and wondering if our little boy was facing something life-changing. Looking back now, it’s one of those stories that makes us laugh. At the time, though, it felt anything but funny.

That night taught me something I’ve continued learning ever since: fear has an incredible ability to write stories that reality never tells. And more often than I’d like to admit, my imagination reaches the diagnosis long before God reveals the truth.

Paul’s words in Philippians remind me that God’s invitation isn’t to pretend difficult situations don’t exist. It’s to bring every anxious thought to Him before fear has the chance to finish writing the story.

Subscribe now

Read It

Philippians 4:6–7 (CSB)

“Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

Own It

Every parent has a first freak out. Ours happened when Brighton was about three or four years old.

We were out running errands one evening when Brighton started complaining that his leg itched. At first, it didn’t seem like much. Kids scratch bug bites all the time. But when we finally got a good look at it in a store parking lot, Karen and I both stopped in our tracks.

There, on his leg, was a circular spot about the size of a penny. It had a bright pinkish-red ring around the outside, a dark blue circle just inside that, and a dark red spot in the very middle. Looking back now, I know exactly what we were seeing. Back then? I was convinced I was looking at rotting flesh.

Everything with Brighton was our first. Our first child. Our first fever. Our first late-night panic. We had no previous experiences to pull from, no parenting stories that ended with, “Oh, it’s probably nothing.” We were learning as we went, and every chapter felt like opening an instruction manual we’d never read before.

Karen and I looked at each other, both trying not to overreact while simultaneously overreacting in our own minds.

“What if it’s staph?”

“What if it’s necrotic tissue?”

“Isn’t that what kills people?”

The questions came much faster than the answers.

Instead of guessing, we started scrolling through our phone contacts looking for someone in the medical field. We found a nurse we trusted and called her. After listening to our description, she asked us to text her a picture of the spot with a coin beside it so she could judge the size. We grabbed a penny, laid it next to Brighton’s leg, snapped the picture, and hit send.

A few minutes later, my phone rang.

“You all probably need to get him to a doctor...ASAP.”

Those four letters changed everything.

I had been doing my best to stay calm for Karen, but the moment I heard that, I became a NASCAR driver.

The entire drive to Franklin felt like one long conversation built entirely on questions. If it was staph, what would they do? If it was a brown recluse bite, would they have to remove dead tissue? Would Williamson Medical send us straight to Vanderbilt? Would they keep him overnight? Which one of us would stay with him? Could we both stay?

Meanwhile, Brighton sat in the back seat acting like a perfectly healthy three-year-old whose leg happened to itch.

Karen prayed almost the whole drive. She prayed that God would heal our little boy, protect him, guide the doctors, and calm our hearts. I prayed too, but if I’m honest, my mind kept trying to outrun God. I was answering “what if” questions that hadn’t happened yet. I was mentally preparing for a future that existed only in my imagination.

By the time we arrived, the emergency room was packed, and they told us that if it looked as serious as we described, they’d probably send us to Vanderbilt anyway. We found a walk-in clinic that was about to close for the evening, and thankfully they agreed to see us.

The doctor walked in with a level of calmness that honestly frustrated me. Looking back, it’s funny. At the time, I was thinking, “Sir, where is your sense of urgency? Our son’s leg could be rotting away while you’re casually introducing yourself.”

He leaned over, looked at the spot for a few seconds, and finally said, “Let’s clean it off and get a better look.”

Cleaning it off?

That had honestly never crossed our minds.

We thought if we touched it, we might make things worse.

The doctor put a little white cream on a cloth and gently wiped across the spot. Once. Then again.

Karen and I watched in complete silence.

The blue started disappearing.

Wait...

Was that...

Blue jean lint?

The doctor smiled.

“He’s got ringworm.”

That was it.

Ringworm.

No staph.

No necrotic tissue.

No Vanderbilt.

No overnight hospital stay.

No life-changing diagnosis.

Just ringworm.

The red circle was exactly what it appeared to be all along. The “dead tissue” we’d been convinced we were looking at turned out to be nothing more than lint from the inside of Brighton’s blue jeans that had collected because he’d been scratching his leg all afternoon.

Karen and I looked at each other and immediately felt two emotions at the same time: overwhelming relief... and just a little bit of embarrassment.

We called our parents to let them know everything was okay.

“It was just ringworm.”

The nurse who had told us to get him to a doctor laughed when we updated her, but she also admitted she’d have sent us too after seeing the picture. And Brighton? He looked at both of us with an expression that seemed to say, “Can we go home now?”

Years later, I can laugh about that night.

Not because we cared too much.

But because we loved our son so much that our imagination outran reality.

Reflect

As funny as that story is now, I’ve realized over the years it wasn’t just teaching us how to be parents. God was teaching us something about fear.

Fear has a remarkable ability to color what we’re looking at until we can no longer see it clearly. It’s like pouring gasoline on the flames of our imagination. We don’t simply prepare for what might happen. We begin living as though it already has.

The funny thing is, I still catch myself doing it.

A few months ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with a minor health issue. Before long, my imagination was writing another horror story all its own. I started thinking about Karen. I thought about our four kids. I wondered what would happen if something was seriously wrong.

I wanted to wake Karen up, but instead I prayed. I asked God to heal me. I asked Him to calm my heart. By morning, I went to the doctor, got checked out, received some medicine, and within a short time the problem was gone.

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but think back to Brighton’s ringworm.

Once again, my imagination had been a ten.

Reality had been about a three.

I wonder how often we do that.

We spend so much time fearing what might be that we lose sight of what actually is. We borrow tomorrow’s troubles before they ever arrive. We rehearse conversations that never happen. We brace for diagnoses we never receive. We convince ourselves that because something resembles disaster, disaster must be inevitable.

Paul understood anxious hearts when he wrote Philippians 4. He didn’t promise that life would never give us reasons to worry. He simply reminded us where our worry belongs.

Take it to God.

Notice what God promises in return.

Not immediate answers.

Not immediate healing.

Not immediate solutions.

Peace.

Sometimes peace is the first miracle God performs.

Looking back now, Karen and I don’t panic quite as quickly. Part of that comes from raising four kids. Experience has taught us that not every rash is an emergency, not every fever is catastrophic, and not every difficult season ends in disaster.

But I think something else has changed too.

My faith has grown.

I’ve watched God carry our family through too many situations to ignore His faithfulness. I’ve learned that everything isn’t a disaster, even when it feels like one in the moment. I’ve also realized that as a husband and father, my family often borrows my calm. That doesn’t mean I never get scared. It means I’ve learned where to take my fear.

Sometimes God removes the problem.

Sometimes He simply reminds us that fear has been telling us a story that isn’t true.

Live It

Is there something in your life right now that your imagination has turned into a catastrophe?

Before you let fear finish writing the story, take it to the One who already knows the ending. Ask God for wisdom. Ask Him for peace. Ask Him to help you see your circumstances through the eyes of faith instead of the lens of fear.

You may still have a difficult road ahead.

Or you may discover that what looked terrifying simply needed to be cleaned off so you could finally see it clearly.

Dinner Table Devotional

• Have you ever worried about something that turned out to be much smaller than you imagined?

• Why do you think our minds naturally jump to worst-case scenarios?

• What does it look like to pray before we panic?

Pray It

Father, thank You for caring about the things that keep us awake at night. Forgive me for the times my imagination runs ahead of my faith. Help me bring my fears to You before I let them grow into something they were never meant to become. Fill my heart with Your peace, give me wisdom for today instead of worry about tomorrow, and help me become a calming presence for the people You’ve entrusted to my care. Amen.

This devotional actually began with a conversation with my oldest son, Brighton.

He came home after studying the story of David and Absalom. He mentioned how David’s love for his rebellious son mirrored God’s love for us. I had read that account many times over the years. I’d always been fascinated by David’s response. Why would he tell his commanders to “deal gently” with a son who had betrayed him? Why would he mourn so deeply for someone who had tried to take his throne?

I’d spent years thinking about David’s heart.

What I had never stopped to consider was what David’s heart revealed about God’s.

Sometimes the people we’re trying to teach end up teaching us. This was one of those moments.

Every family has moments they wish they could take back.

Sometimes it’s a harsh word spoken in anger. Sometimes it’s a slammed door, a broken relationship, or years of distance that seem impossible to repair. If you’re a parent, you’ve probably discovered that your love for your children doesn’t disappear simply because they’ve made poor choices. In many ways, it grows stronger because you desperately want them to find their way back.

The story of David and Absalom is one of the most heartbreaking accounts in Scripture. It’s a story of betrayal, regret, and unconditional love. But it also points us to an even greater Father who loved His rebellious children enough to make a way for them to come home.

As you read today’s passage, pay attention to David’s heart. Then ask yourself what it reveals about the heart of God.

Read It

2 Samuel 18:5

“The king commanded Joab, Abishai, and Ittai, ‘Treat the young man Absalom gently for my sake.’ And all the people heard when the king gave all the commanders orders concerning Absalom.”

2 Samuel 18:33

After learning of Absalom’s death. “The king was deeply moved and went up to the chamber over the city gate and wept. As he walked, he cried, ‘My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you, Absalom, my son, my son!’

Own It

As parents, we’ve all heard words we’d rather forget.

“I hate you.”

“I wish I lived somewhere else.”

“You’re the meanest dad ever.”

The first time you hear those words, they sting. You know they probably aren’t true, but they still hurt. Most of the time those words don’t come from hatred. They come from frustration, embarrassment, or a child who just discovered that Mom and Dad aren’t changing their minds.

The funny thing is, I can’t really hold it against them.

I remember doing the exact same thing.

Growing up, my brothers Sean and Andrew and I had our share of arguments. I remember one time telling Sean that we weren’t brothers anymore. Looking back, that’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever said. You don’t stop being family because someone gets mad. You don’t erase years of love because of one heated argument.

Kids have a way of saying permanent things in temporary moments.

Now that I’m a dad, I’ve learned something.

After discipline or an argument, I usually don’t wait very long before I go back into my child’s room. I don’t want hurt feelings to have more time than they deserve. I don’t want distance to settle into a relationship that needs healing.

I usually sit down beside them, talk through what happened, and remind them of something they may not feel in that moment.

They’re still mine.

My love didn’t disappear because they made a bad decision.

In fact, moments like those probably make me want to reconnect even more.

Love and approval are not the same thing.

Some of the most loving words a parent can speak are, “I love you too much not to tell you the truth.” When my kids make choices that don’t honor God, they need me to lovingly point them back toward Him. Ignoring sin isn’t loving. Pretending wrong is right isn’t loving either.

Correction isn’t rejection.

It’s love with the courage to tell the truth.

I’ve told all four of my kids that there is nowhere they could ever be that would keep them from calling me. We even have a secret text code they can send if they ever find themselves somewhere they shouldn’t be. I’ll happily be the bad guy if it means getting them home safely. I never want fear or shame to keep them from reaching out for help. “Throw me under the bus all you want,” I’ve told them more than once.

I want them to know they can always come home.

Growing up around cattle taught me something about people too. Every now and then you’d have one that wanted to test the fence. It didn’t matter that the fence shocked it yesterday. Somehow it seemed to think today might be different. Sure enough, it would touch the fence again.

Sometimes we’re a lot like those cattle.

God gives us boundaries because He loves us, yet we still convince ourselves that maybe this time we’ll find something better on the other side. We test the fence over and over, wondering if life outside God’s design will finally satisfy us. Then ZAP!

That’s what Absalom did.

He wasn’t simply a rebellious son. He quietly stole the hearts of Israel, declared himself king, and forced David to flee Jerusalem. It wasn’t just family conflict.

It was treason. He broke the law. The big law.

By every human standard, David had every reason to protect his throne and demand justice. Instead, as his army marched into battle, David gave an unexpected command.

“Deal gently with the young man Absalom for my sake.”

That wasn’t simply the order of a king.

It was the plea of a father.

I’ve often wondered if part of David’s grief came from knowing he hadn’t always been the father he should have been. David made some painful mistakes with his family, and parents have a way of replaying those moments in their minds when relationships become strained. Whether those thoughts crossed David’s mind or not, one thing is certain.

He never stopped loving his son.

When Joab ignored David’s command and killed Absalom, David didn’t celebrate the end of the rebellion. He cried out, “My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you.”

Every parent understands those words.

Love doesn’t disappear when your child disappoints you.

Then it hit me.

When I read this story, I’ve always imagined myself as David.

But that’s not who I am.

We are Absalom.

Every time I’ve chosen my own way over God’s, I’ve committed treason against the King of the universe. I’ve looked at His wisdom and decided I knew better.

Yet instead of abandoning me, He made a way for me to come home.

David wished he could take his son’s place.

Jesus actually took mine.

I’ve experienced a small picture of that kind of grace before.

When I was growing up, my brother Sean and I were throwing a baseball in the backyard like we had done dozens of times. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and Sean, who was the best baseball player of the three of us, was working on scooping low throws at first base.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself. No idea honestly.

I threw one a little low. Maybe it took a bad hop. Maybe it skipped under his glove.

Either way...

The baseball rocketed straight into our sliding glass door.

It hit the bottom corner, and in an instant the entire pane turned into a giant spiderweb. There wasn’t a piece of glass bigger than a dime.

Sean and I just stood there staring at it.

Neither of us had to say a word.

We both knew exactly what we had to do next.

We walked inside, found Mama and Daddy, and told them what had happened.

We fully expected punishment.

Instead, we found understanding.

They knew we hadn’t been reckless.

It was an accident.

I’ve thought about that moment many times over the years.

How often do we approach God expecting anger when He’s already provided grace through Christ?

The difference, of course, is that my parents absorbed the cost of a broken window.

God absorbed the cost of our broken lives.

That’s why we don’t have to hide.

That’s why we don’t have to keep running.

Because Jesus already paid for what we could never fix ourselves.

Maybe that’s why I tell my own kids they can always call me.

Maybe that’s why I walk back into their room after hard conversations.

Maybe that’s why we have a secret text code if they ever need help.

I’m simply trying to reflect the heart of a Father who has spent my entire life reminding me of one beautiful truth.

Come home.

That’s the heart of our Father.

Live It

Ask yourself these questions today:

• Have I confused God’s correction with His rejection?

• Is there someone in my life who needs to know they are still loved, even while I disagree with their choices?

• Am I making it easy for my children, spouse, or loved ones to come to me when they’ve made a mistake?

• Is there an area where I need to stop running from God and simply come home?

Go Deeper

Read these passages and consider what they teach about the Father’s heart.

• 2 Samuel 18:5-33

• Luke 15:11-32

• Romans 5:6-11

• John 10:27-30

As you read, look for the ways God pursues, forgives, protects, and restores His children.

Dinner Table Devotional

Ask everyone at the table:

Have you ever been afraid to admit you did something wrong? Why?

Then ask:

How does it change the way we think about God when we realize He wants us to come to Him instead of hiding from Him?

Remind your family that discipline is meant to restore, not destroy. A loving parent corrects because they care, and our Heavenly Father does the same.

Pray

Father,

Thank You for loving me even when I have acted more like Absalom than a faithful child. Thank You that Your love isn’t based on my performance but on Your grace. Help me never confuse Your correction with rejection. Teach me to reflect Your heart in my own family so that those I love always know they can come home. And when I wander, remind me that through Jesus, Your arms are still open.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

I'd love to hear from you. What's one way you've experienced the Father's unconditional love, or what's something you've learned as a parent about grace? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Leave a comment

I was finishing up mowing the backyard this week when God interrupted my train of thought.

If you mow your own yard, you probably understand what I mean. There is something about mowing that clears my head. Maybe it’s the rhythm of walking back and forth. Maybe it’s seeing the neat lines appear behind you. Maybe it’s the instant gratification of taking something that looks a little wild and making it look cared for again. Whatever it is, I do a lot of thinking while I’m mowing.

This particular afternoon, I shut the mower off and just stood there for a minute. The yard looked good. The deck looked even better. I’d finally gotten around to staining it, and it looked brand new. Karen’s gazebo was sitting on top with the lights hanging around it, the couches I’d built were in place, and the landscaping project I’d been working on was finally starting to come together. I still want to add some decorative bracing to the gazebo, but for the first time in a while, I looked around and simply enjoyed what God had allowed me to build.

Whenever something like that happens, I’ve developed a habit over the years.

I thank God.

I don’t say that to sound super spiritual. Most of the time nobody is around to hear me anyway. It’s simply become something I intentionally do. When I notice something beautiful, when I see one of God’s blessings, or when something makes me smile, I stop and thank Him.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I smiled, shook my head, looked around one more time, and quietly said, “Thank You, Lord.”

As I stood there, my mind wandered like it usually does. My newest book (Built to Last) had just released, and the response had been better than I ever imagined. New writing opportunities have been opening up lately, and every time one does, I’m reminded that none of this is because I’m especially talented. It’s because God has been incredibly gracious.

Then I looked across the yard and saw one of my kids riding his bicycle.

Like every parent, I could make you a list of things they do that get on my nerves. Four kids under one roof can make enough noise to convince you the house is being remodeled. They fuss with each other sometimes over the dumbest things, and they things that should cause a fuss are ignored for whatever reason. They eat like a plague of locusts has descended upon the pantry. They leave cups in places that seem to defy the laws of physics.

They’re kids.

But then another thought crossed my mind.

Whenever we’re out in public, people constantly tell Karen and me how respectful they are. They’ll carry on conversations with adults. They have manners. They’re genuinely enjoyable to be around.

More importantly, every one of them has trusted Christ, and each of them is growing in their faith in his or her own way. I have never had to sit them down and convince them that church matters. They want to go.

Then I thought about Karen.

Some men use mowing the yard as an escape from what’s waiting inside the house. They’ll stay outside just a little longer because the garage is quieter than the living room.

Not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I like mowing. I like working outside more than a lot of my household chores.

But I love walking back through the door.

I love my wife.

I love my kids.

I love the life God has given me.

That’s when I believe the Lord planted the seed for this article.

It wasn’t an audible voice, but the thought was so clear it may as well have been.

“Well, Maury...this home you’re leading is partly your fault.”

I laughed.

Then I shook my head again.

Because He was right.

Walking Through the Door

I stepped inside, and Christian worship music was playing through one of our speakers. Nobody had been told to turn it on. Nobody had been forced to listen to it. Somebody in our house simply wanted to hear music that pointed their heart toward Jesus.

That made me smile.

Karen was in the kitchen making banana pudding because I didn’t get much on Father’s Day.

Our locusts...I mean, our kids...had made sure of that.

I started getting hamburgers ready for the Blackstone because I’d promised everyone burgers for supper. Every one of the kids has a favorite cheese, and after all these years I know which slice belongs on which burger without having to ask. Mine is pepper jack and cheddar.

I had even timed supper so Brighton would be getting home from work just as everything was ready.

Earlier that afternoon I’d texted him and asked if he’d grab me a Coke.

When he walked through the door, he held it up and grinned.

“Do you know how much this was? Three dollars,” he said.

“I’ll pay you back.” I walked over and handed him twelve quarters.

A few weeks earlier he’d bought a video game online and paid me back the exact same way. Turnabout’s fair play.

It wasn’t really about the Coke. It was about the relationship.

I’ve realized lately that something is changing between Brighton and me. He’s still my son, but we’re slowly entering that season where we’re becoming friends too. I don’t dread my kids growing up the way some parents do. Honestly, I look forward to it. It’s like reading a really good book. Every chapter gets better than the one before it.

The house just felt...

Peaceful.

Not silent. Four kids live here.

Peaceful.

Karen eventually stepped back inside after sitting on the deck for a while and smiled.

“That backyard is my happy place,” she said. “Thank you for making it so pretty.”

I don’t think she was really talking about the deck. I think she was talking about the life we’ve built together.

Standing there with hamburger grease on my hands, I quietly thanked God again. Then another thought hit me. Maybe none of this happened by accident.

Peace Is Cultivated

Karen has a saying that I’ve heard her repeat more than once when we have led marriage studies.

“As the husband goes, so goes the household.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized she’s probably right.

Homes don’t naturally drift toward peace. They drift toward chaos. Peace has to be cultivated.

The atmosphere inside our home didn’t magically appear one Tuesday afternoon. It has been built over thousands of ordinary moments that nobody else will ever see.

Every conversation.

Every apology.

Every prayer.

Every hug.

Every family dinner.

Every bedtime Bible reading.

Every decision to leave work at work.

Every one of those moments has quietly shaped the culture of our home.

Then it hit me.

The atmosphere inside our house is, at least in part, in fact my fault.

Not because I’m perfect. Far from it.

But because fathers are culture builders whether we realize it or not. For better or worse.

That got me thinking about the “bad side” of being a Christian husband and father.

You know...

The terrible burden of actually having to live like one.

The Bad Side #1: Somebody Has to Go First

Nobody told me that becoming a Christian father meant I’d actually have to open my Bible instead of just owning several of them.

I really do have several.

There’s the King James Bible I received for Christmas in 1989. Every Christmas Eve I still read Luke 2 from that same Bible before our family goes to bed. I have my Tony Evans Study Bible that I carry to church every Sunday. The spine is beginning to fall apart, which tells me it’s being used the way it was intended. I have other Bibles that people have given me over the years, and many of those have now been passed down to my children until they received their own.

Next to my bed is a prayer journal. It’s filled with prayers, answers, and praises. Lately God has been answering so many prayers that I almost can’t keep up with writing them down. I pray for my wife. I pray for my daughters. I pray for Brighton’s future career and for the young woman who will one day become his wife.

He hasn’t met her yet.

But Karen and I have already been praying for her.

I did the same thing before I met Karen. I’m awfully glad I did.

My kids know where that journal is. My sermon notebooks are sitting out too. In fact, my daughters eventually asked for notebooks of their own because they wanted to take notes during church just like Dad. Brighton carries a composition notebook with him every Sunday.

Nobody made that happen. Nobody was told they had to do it.

They watched.

Just today, Brighton came home excited to tell me what he’d been studying. He had been reading about David after Absalom’s death and told me how David’s grief reminded him of God’s love for us. Even after Absalom rebelled against his father, David still loved him. Brighton saw a picture of God’s heart in that story.

I never had to ask if he’d spent time with the Lord.

His excitement answered the question before I ever could.

Children rarely become what we demand.

More often, they become what they see.

The Bad Side #2: You Have to Keep Dating the Same Woman

Poor me.

I have to spend the rest of my life with the same beautiful woman.

The one who’s gorgeous, smart, funny, and somehow still likes me after all these years.

Life is rough.

Karen still comes over, grabs my arm, and throws it around her shoulder. Then she’ll smile and ask, “You still like me?”

I always answer, “I think so.”

Our kids see that. They see us hold hands. They see us hug. They see us laugh.

They also see that we’re on the same team.

Whenever one of the kids tries to play the odds by asking the other parent after already receiving an answer, the response is almost always the same.

“What did your Mama say?”

Or...

“What did your Daddy say?”

We stand together.

Karen has made me a better man. Truthfully, I think I crave her respect even more than her love. Knowing she loves me is easy. Respect has to be earned, and she respects me in a way that makes me want to become an even better husband tomorrow than I was today.

I’ve realized something else over the years.

I might be the chisel that knocks off some of the rough edges around our house.

Karen is the polisher.

She’s the one who smooths those edges until they shine.

That’s one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me.

The Bad Side #3: Somebody Has to Protect the Atmosphere

I work from home now, so technically I don’t come home anymore.

I clock out.

The funny thing is that my kids know exactly what time that happens. Within minutes somebody usually appears in the bonus room.

“Daddy...are you off?”

Usually a hug follows along with a “Yes!” Sometimes with a request.

Usually both.

I don’t mind.

Actually, I invited it.

Even when I’m writing, one or two of them are usually sitting beside me asking what I’m writing about or whether they’re in the story. They love it.

Life wasn’t always like that.

When I worked retail years ago, I had an hour commute one way. Karen had already left for work before I woke up, and by the time I got home around nine o’clock at night, she was exhausted and so was I.

We weren’t angry.

We were just tired.

We felt like two ships passing in the night.

I hated it.

Around that same time, I made another decision.

Growing up, I didn’t always enjoy when my dad brought work home emotionally. I remember how that felt.

So I decided my wife and kids would never become the dumping ground for my bad day.

If somebody at work frustrates me...

That isn’t my family’s fault.

They’re my refuge.

I want to be theirs.

My kids joke that I’m Batman.

I don’t think they’re talking about the cape.

I think they’re talking about the calm. And the fact that I have a complete Batsuit hanging in my closet, but I digress.

When something goes wrong, I want them to believe Dad has a plan. Sometimes I’m already on Plan C because Plans A and B have completely fallen apart, but they don’t need to see my panic.

They need to see my faith.

When storms come, I want my family to think, “If Daddy isn’t worried, maybe everything’s going to be okay.”

Not because I’m fearless.

Because they know I trust the One who is.

The Bad Side #4: They’re Always Watching

Children are incredible observers.

They notice far more than we think they do.

My boys know they’re called to be gentlemen, even when it’s difficult. They’ve watched me try to treat people with kindness, even when those people haven’t always deserved it.

Unfortunately, they’ve also inherited my sarcasm.

We’re still working on proper timing and audience. Progress is being made.

They’ve watched me stop to help people.

They’ve watched Karen quietly serve people.

They’ve watched us apologize to one another.

They’ve watched us forgive.

Being a Christian has never been presented as something we do on Sundays.

It’s simply who we’re trying to become.

The Bad Side #5: Sunday Has to Survive Monday

Church isn’t just somewhere we attend. It’s where we gather with other believers before going out to be the Church the rest of the week.

Prayer isn’t reserved for bedtime and meals.

Forgiveness isn’t just preached.

It’s practiced.

Serving isn’t divided into “Mom jobs” and “Dad jobs.” We simply serve each other because that’s what families do.

Our children need to see that following Jesus works just as well on Tuesday afternoon as it does on Sunday morning. Otherwise they’ll eventually notice the difference.

The Bad Side #6: You’re Building More Than a House

As I stood in the backyard that afternoon, admiring the freshly stained deck, God reminded me that I’d spent one afternoon improving a backyard.

God had spent twenty years building a home.

I spent one afternoon staining a deck.

God has spent twenty years staining a husband.

One project made the backyard beautiful.

The other made coming home beautiful.

Every prayer.

Every apology.

Every date night.

Every Blackstone burger.

Every bedtime Bible reading.

Every Coke paid back in quarters.

Every decision to leave stress at work.

Another coat.

Another layer.

Another brick in the culture of our home.

One day my children will have homes of their own. My prayer isn’t that they copy my furniture or my landscaping.

I hope they build a culture where worship music plays because someone wants to hear it.

Where husbands and wives still laugh together after decades.

Where children know they’re safe.

Where prayer is normal.

Where God’s Word is open.

Where peace has been cultivated.

Maybe one afternoon they’ll finish mowing their own yard. Maybe they’ll stop, smile, shake their head, and thank God. And maybe the Lord will whisper to them what He whispered to me.

“This home you’re leading is partly your fault.”

I hope they smile.

Because that may be one of the greatest compliments a Christian husband and father could ever receive.

So yes, there is a bad side to being a Christian husband and father.

You have to go first.

You have to pray first.

You have to forgive first.

You have to love first.

You have to protect the atmosphere of your home.

You have to build the culture everyone else gets to enjoy.

Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Except it isn’t. It’s one of the greatest privileges God has ever entrusted to a man.

So don’t just build a nice house. Build a peaceful home. Be the kind of husband your wife is thankful to see walk through the door. Be the kind of father your kids are excited to interrupt because they know Dad is “off work.”

Leave your stress on the porch whenever you can. Your family didn’t cause your bad day. In many ways, they’re God’s gift to help you recover from it.

Be their refuge.

After all, that’s exactly what our Heavenly Father has been for us.

And if one afternoon behind a lawn mower reminds you to stop, look around, and thank God for the life He’s given you...

Don’t be surprised if He reminds you that the peace inside your home didn’t happen by accident.

It was built one faithful day at a time.

If that’s the fault God wants to lay at my feet, I’ll thank Him for it every single day.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit. My hope is to encourage husbands, fathers, and families to follow Christ with grit, grace, and a little humor along the way.

If you haven’t subscribed yet, I’d love to have you join us.

Subscribe now

I'd love to hear from you. What's one ordinary habit that's helped shape the culture of your home?

Leave a comment

When I was twenty-five, I thought the answer was probably gifts.

To be fair, our church gives all the dads root beer every Father’s Day, which is a thoughtful gesture. The only problem is that I can’t stand root beer.

A few years ago, one of the families in our Life Group rented a water slide for their son’s birthday and created a new Father’s Day weekend tradition. When I say water slide, I don’t mean one of those little inflatable slides you put in the backyard. This thing is massive. It is taller than their house. It is the kind you tell your kids to be careful. They invite our group over every year.

Every year since then, Karen asks me if that’s what I want to do for Father’s Day.

Every year, I tell her yes.

She already knows the answer before she asks. She usually smiles and says, “I just want you happy.”

The thing is, I am happy.

I enjoy grilling hamburgers and hot dogs. I enjoy sitting around talking with friends. I enjoy watching my kids run around and laugh with their friends. And if I’m being honest, I still enjoy climbing up that giant water slide and racing my kids to the bottom.

What I enjoy most, though, are the moments in between.

I enjoy hearing, “Watch this, Daddy!”

I enjoy being told it’s my turn to go down the slide.

I enjoy seeing my kids look over their shoulder to make sure I’m watching before they try something new.

Maybe that sounds silly, but it means something to me. It means they still care enough to ask. It means they still want my approval. As fathers, we don’t always realize how much those little moments matter until we notice them becoming fewer and farther between.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that the gifts aren’t really what matter.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate every card, every text, every hug, and every “Happy Father’s Day.” But if someone handed me a $500 gift card, I’d probably end up spending it on my family anyway.

The truth is, I don’t need much.

Knowing that Karen loves me is a gift.

Knowing my children love me is a gift.

Right now, as I type this, Grayson is stretched out beside me with his head resting on my arm.

He’s not talking.

He’s not asking for anything.

He’s just here.

At eight years old, he still thinks sitting next to Dad is a good way to spend an afternoon.

I know that season won’t last forever.

The thing about Grayson is that he’s my youngest. Brighton is the oldest, so many of the milestones in his life are the firsts. First driver’s license. First job. First graduation. First time leaving home.

With Grayson, many things will be the lasts.

The last bike rides.

The last time he asks me to watch how far he can kick the ball.

The last time he wants me to see the skid marks he made with his bike tire.

I don’t want him to stay little. That’s not how this works. He has to grow up just like the others. I want him to grow. I want him to become the man God created him to be. But I also understand that these moments don’t last forever, which is why I try to be intentional with them.

Today, we went to an arcade. Then we stopped for drinks and a treat at a local market. Years from now, he probably won’t remember whether the house was clean. He might remember spending the afternoon with Dad and getting to drink a Sun Drop in a glass bottle sitting in the front seat.

Fatherhood has taught me that very few people remember spotless floors. They remember who spent time with them.

One of the greatest blessings of getting older is seeing some of the seeds you’ve planted begin to grow.

When Brighton got old enough to work, Karen and I both encouraged him. Karen nudged. I pushed a little harder. I was the one who told him to apply at the recreation center. I was the one who encouraged him to spread his wings and learn some responsibility.

He loves it.

He loves earning his own money.

He loves the freedom that comes with it.

One thing I love is that the recreation center allows employees to read when things are slow. Brighton could have chosen anything. Instead, he chose to read his Bible. He comes home on rainy days and talks about things he’s learned from Scripture.

Brighton could have picked a novel, a video game magazine, or spent his downtime scrolling on his phone. Instead, he chose to read his Bible.

When he comes home talking about something he found in Scripture, I try not to act overly excited.

Inside, though, I’m thinking, “Lord, thank You so much.”

As a father, moments like that make you think maybe you’ve done something right.

Recently, Chloe asked us to sign her up as a crew leader for Vacation Bible School. We didn’t ask her to do it. Nobody pressured her. She simply saw a need and wanted to help.

She said she wanted to serve because the church needed her.

That makes me proud.

Sophie has a servant’s heart. If the sweet tea pitcher is empty, she’ll often make more. Before long, she’ll walk in carrying me a glass. It’s such a small thing, but kindness usually shows up in small things.

All of my children tell me goodnight before bed. The girls still kiss me on the head. Brighton doesn’t do that anymore, but he’ll still come give me a hug.

An almost eighteen-year-old boy who still hugs his dad?

I’ll take that all day long.

One of my favorite verses as a father is 3 John 1:4:

“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in truth.”

Notice what John didn’t say.

He didn’t say success.

He didn’t say wealth.

He didn’t say influence.

He said truth.

I want my children to be successful. I want them to work hard and do well. But if I had to choose between worldly success and walking faithfully with Jesus, I wouldn’t need much time to make that decision.

All four of my children have made decisions to follow Christ. Before each of them was baptized, we sat down and had conversations. I wanted to make sure they understood what they were doing. I didn’t want them making a decision because everyone else was. I wanted them to know why they believed what they believed.

There is a joy in knowing your children are walking with the Lord that is difficult to describe. Happiness comes and goes. Joy remains.

The older my children get, the less control I have. That’s one of the hardest lessons of fatherhood.

When they were little, I could keep them safe.

Now Brighton drives around town by himself.

That can be terrifying.

He’s a good driver, but not everyone else is.

I’ve told him more than once that his head has to stay on a swivel because driving isn’t as easy as it looks when you’re sitting in the passenger seat.

At some point, though, you realize you can’t be there for every decision. You can’t ride in every car. You can’t solve every problem. You can’t protect them from every mistake.

I finally just listen for Life360 to “ding” and tell me when he arrives where he is supposed to be. It took some time.

Eventually, you have to trust God to watch over them when you can’t.

Our family has a saying that gets repeated often:

“You can only control yourself.”

I hope my children hear my voice years from now.

More importantly, I hope they hear God’s voice.

Mine should simply be an echo of His.

I once read that a father’s job is to prepare his children to live in a world without him.

That statement hits harder now than it did when I first read it.

I hated that quote the first time I read it.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because it was.

And because one day it will be true for me.

My goal isn’t to keep my children dependent on me forever.

My goal is to help them become the people God created them to be.

Maybe twenty years from now one of my kids will call or text and say, “Dad, can I run something by you?”

Maybe they’ll tell me about a problem at work.

Maybe they’ll ask about marriage.

Maybe they’ll ask about parenting.

Maybe they’ll finish by saying, “I know I can only control myself.”

Not because they remembered my words.

But because somewhere along the way, those words became theirs.

If that happens, I’ll smile.

Because that means they were listening.

And honestly, that’s the greatest Father’s Day gift I could ever receive.

“Masters of the Universe comes out the weekend of June 5. Ya’ll want to go?”

That was all it took.

No convincing. No discussion. No debate over schedules or whether the movie would actually be any good. We were going.

To be fair, the movie was made for people exactly like us.

Back in 1987, I was around ten years old. My brother Sean was seven. Andrew, the youngest of the Wood boys, was only three. Every afternoon after school, Sean and I would settle into my parents’ bedroom to watch He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. Andrew was usually nearby, soaking it all in and learning about Eternia before he was even old enough for kindergarten.

Looking back, it was a pretty odd place to watch television.

My parents’ bedroom had maroon carpet and a waterbed with framed cross-stitched pictures of roses my Mama had created. A little 13-inch television with rabbit ears sat on top of a wooden table with folding leaves. The table itself wasn’t much bigger than the television. Wedged between the waterbed and the TV was a brown rocking chair with wicker woven into the seat and back.

That rocking chair was prime real estate.

You couldn’t sit on the waterbed because it was too far away. When He-Man was battling Skeletor, you needed to be close enough to see every detail. Nobody defends the secrets of Castle Grayskull with our friends the Sorceress, Man-at-Arms, and Orko from halfway across the room.

So we’d crowd around that little television and watch every afternoon.

Saturday mornings were different. He-Man wasn’t part of those memories. Saturday mornings belonged to cartoons in general. We’d get up early, make our way to the living room floor, and settle in front of the television while Mama cooked breakfast. Pancakes and homemade syrup were usually involved. On a good day, tenderloin and biscuits. We didn’t have chores waiting on us because our farm wasn’t where the milking happened. My grandparents’ farm was home to the milking of cows a couple of miles down the road, so Saturday mornings belonged to cartoons, breakfast, and being brothers.

At the time, it felt completely normal.

Now it feels priceless.

Our room was filled with toys. Before we eventually finished our room upstairs, the three of us shared a large downstairs bedroom with high ceilings. He-Man figures were everywhere. G.I. Joe figures. Farm toys. Baseball cards. We had a huge wooden toy box shaped like some kind of farm animal. To this day, I couldn’t tell you if it was supposed to be a horse or a cow. I just know it held enough toys to keep three boys occupied for years.

I honestly don’t remember asking for many specific toys. Mama and Daddy bought them for us or we’d receive them as gifts. We simply played with what we had.

What strikes me now is how many of those toys depended on each other.

I had He-Man because I was the oldest I guess. Sean had Skeletor, though he still insists I somehow lost it at church. To this day, that accusation remains unsupported by evidence. Sean also had Castle Grayskull while I had Battle Cat. Later, Sean ended up with the Ghostbusters firehouse while I had Ecto-1.

Looking back, it’s funny how often our toys required cooperation. By themselves, they were just pieces of plastic. Together, they became stories. You couldn’t really play Masters of the Universe without both heroes and villains. You couldn’t properly bust ghosts without both the headquarters and the car. Whether my parents intended it or not, they gave us toys that encouraged us to play together.

And we did.

A lot.

We never really acted out He-Man adventures outside. Outside was reserved for sports. We’d put baseball cards into those 9-card sleeves, build lineups, and then head into the backyard with a tennis ball and a bat. Sean always found a way to put Dale Murphy on his team. Andrew usually grabbed Dave Winfield. I often ended up with Orel Hershiser.

The rules were simple. If you picked a left-handed player, you batted left-handed. If you picked a switch hitter, even better. We took our imaginary baseball leagues very seriously.

Inside was toys.

Outside was sports.

Life was pretty simple.

I think that’s why nostalgia resonates with us. People often say they miss old television shows, cartoons, toys, and music. I don’t know if that’s entirely true. I think what we really miss is how life felt when those things were part of our days.

We miss staying outside until dark.

We miss hearing Mama call us inside for supper.

We miss building forts in the bathroom with Andrew’s cardboard bricks for our G.I. Joe vehicles.

We miss Saturday mornings before responsibilities started piling up.

Most of all, we miss the people who shared those moments with us.

Life eventually became more complicated.

My parents divorced.

Like many children whose parents divorce, we understood what was happening. That didn’t make it easy. Looking back, I think my brothers and I leaned on each other more than we realized. The relationship built through years of shared bedrooms, baseball games, cartoons, and toy boxes suddenly mattered even more.

As the years have passed, that bond has remained.

When Andrew got older, there was a season when he actually lived with me in my first house for a few years. It wasn’t something either of us thought much about at the time. That’s simply what brothers do. You show up when you’re needed. You help when you can. We got along great.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped being three boys who happened to live in the same house and became three men who genuinely enjoy being together.

That’s rarer than people think.

One of my favorite examples happened years ago during a game of Taboo. If you’ve never played, the objective is to get your team to guess a word without using certain clues listed on the card. Most teams use obvious hints.

We didn’t.

Me, Sean, and Andrew started using random references from our childhood. Old stories. Family moments. Things nobody else in the room understood.

People got frustrated.

We kept winning.

Not because we were smarter than anyone else, but because we spoke the same language. We knew each other’s stories.

That’s one of the greatest gifts family can give you. People who know the whole story. People who remember who you were before the job title, before parenthood, before the responsibilities. People who remember the rocking chair, the rabbit ears, the waterbed, and yes, the missing Skeletor figure.

When the new Masters of the Universe movie finally arrived, we met at the theater with several of our kids. Before we even went inside the theater, we stood in the lobby and talked as our kids, the cousins, caught up like they had seen each other yesterday.

Then we walked in and sat together.

What’s funny is we naturally sat in birth order. Nobody planned it. Nobody discussed it. It just happened. The kids ended up sitting around us while the three brothers settled into the middle of the row like we’d been assigned those seats decades ago.

Throughout the movie, we’d lean over and whisper observations to each other. There were references to the old cartoon everywhere, and every time one appeared, somebody noticed. The movie was packed with Easter eggs for people our age. Ordinarily, I would be worried about bothering people around us, but luckily, the theater was not that full.

The movie was good.

But if I’m being honest, the movie wasn’t the best part of the afternoon.

The best part was looking at the two seats to my right and realizing that after all these years, we still enjoy spending time together. We still laugh at the same things. We still remember the same stories. We still pick up conversations right where we left them.

When the movie ended, we stood outside talking before everyone headed home. We took a picture and told each other we loved each other.

As I stood there, I couldn’t help but notice how different life looked now. The three boys who once crowded around a tiny television had become husbands, fathers, homeowners, and taxpayers. Somehow that feels less exciting than discovering the secrets of Castle Grayskull, busting ghosts, or battling the evil Cobra Commander, but here we are.

The responsibilities were waiting for all of us the next morning. Jobs. Families. Schedules. All the things that come with adulthood.

Yet for a couple of hours, we had stepped back into a simpler season of life.

Not because of a movie.

Because of each other.

As I was driving home, my phone rang.

It was Mama.

She had already seen the pictures we’d posted.

“I’m so glad y’all got to do that together,” she said.

I knew exactly what she meant.

The older I get, the more I realize that God often does His best work through things that don’t seem important at the time. A rocking chair. A toy box. A handful of action figures. Pancakes on a Saturday morning. Three brothers learning to share.

None of those moments felt significant while they were happening.

Yet somehow, God used all of them to build relationships strong enough to survive childhood, adulthood, divorce, heartache, distance, and time.

We went to see He-Man because we loved the cartoon.

We left grateful for something far more valuable than the memories it brought back.

The toys are gone.

The cartoon ended years ago.

The rabbit ears are gone.

The waterbed is gone.

Even the little television has long since disappeared.

But Sean is still Sean.

Andrew is still Andrew.

Maury D. is still Maury D.

And I’m still thankful God let me grow up with them.

By the power of Grayskull, He-Man always saved the day.

Looking back, I think God gave me something even better.

He gave me brothers.

I’m Maury Wood. Husband. Dad of four. Writer. Former newspaper reporter. Tennessee farm kid.

Most of what I write starts with something ordinary.

A conversation with one of my kids.

Something my wife says.

A lesson I learned growing up on a dairy farm.

A moment that makes me laugh before it makes me think.

Grit & Wit is where I write about faith, family, marriage, parenting, work, and the everyday moments that often matter more than we realize.

The best way to get to know this publication isn’t through my biography.

It’s through the stories.

Subscribe now

If you’re new, these are a few of the stories readers have connected with most.

• The Night I Quit Dating and Met My Wife

• The Curse Word Confession

• She Came to Get Me

• The Kind of Rich You Don’t Notice as a Kid

• Don’t Save It For the Funeral Home

• When God Said No

What You’ll Find Here

• Practical faith for everyday life

• Stories with humor and heart

• Marriage and parenting reflections

• Encouragement for ordinary people

• Occasional reminders that God often shows up in places we weren’t looking

New stories arrive every Tuesday and Thursday morning.

If you’re looking for practical faith, encouragement, a few laughs, and reminders that you’re not alone in the middle of real life, I’d love to have you along.

Pull up a chair. I’m glad you’re here.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ve been sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, Pastor Sam Landrith concluded our journey through Ruth and reminded us that God’s plans are always better than ours. While we often focus on the chapter we are living, God sees the entire story.

You can watch this week’s message here:

God’s Plan is Always Better - Ruth 4 with Sam Landrith

READ IT - Ruth 4:1-22

A couple of weeks ago, I was cleaning out the garage.

As I sorted through old tools, I found myself staring at a little green toolbox that has been with me for years. My stepdad Tom gave it to me when I was in my early twenties after realizing I didn’t really have any tools of my own. Inside were a hammer, some screwdrivers, a tape measure, a level, a crescent wrench, and a few other basics.

At the time, it was exactly what I needed.

As I cleaned out my garage that afternoon, I started placing tools into that same green toolbox for Brighton. A hammer. A socket set. Some drill bits. A few Allen wrenches. Tools I know he’ll eventually need.

When I showed it to him later, he smiled and said, “Oh, that’s awesome.”

And standing there in the garage, I realized something.

My stepdad wasn’t just giving me tools all those years ago.

He was building a legacy.

That’s exactly what I thought about while listening to Pastor Sam finish our journey through the book of Ruth.

OWN IT

Pastor Sam began by walking back through the entire story.

Chapter 1 was about heartbreak, loss, and pain.

Chapter 2 was about work, waiting, and serving.

Chapter 3 was about initiating, surrendering, and trusting.

Chapter 4 was about redemption, restoration, and rejoicing.

One of his points was that the darkest hour became the defining hour.

When Ruth chose to leave Moab and follow Naomi, she had no idea where that road would lead. She was a widow leaving behind everything familiar to follow an aging mother-in-law into an uncertain future.

If you had asked Ruth in Chapter 1 what her future looked like, I doubt she would have described Chapter 4.

She probably assumed she would spend the rest of her life surviving.

Gathering leftover grain.

Taking care of Naomi.

Simply making it through another day.

But Ruth couldn’t see Chapter 4 while she was living Chapter 1.

Neither could Naomi.

That’s often true for us as well.

Pastor Sam referenced Winston Churchill and the movie Darkest Hour. During World War II, many people wanted Churchill to surrender and negotiate with Hitler. Instead, he stood firm. What looked like a hopeless moment became one of the defining moments in history.

Dark seasons have a way of stripping away our illusions of control. They remind us that our hope was never supposed to rest in circumstances. When options disappear, many of us finally do what we should have been doing all along.

We hit our knees.

We open our Bibles.

We seek God.

The darkest hour often becomes the defining hour because it is where we learn to trust Him.

Pastor Sam’s second point was that what seemed like the end was only the beginning.

One of the most beautiful parts of Ruth’s story is watching how her identity changes throughout the book.

She begins as a foreigner.

An outsider.

Someone who doesn’t belong.

Over time, she becomes a servant. Then a woman worthy of respect. Eventually she becomes a wife and part of the family.

That progression mirrors the Gospel.

We come to Christ carrying sin, shame, and brokenness. Through His grace, we are welcomed into His family. What once defined us no longer has the final word.

Ruth thought she was simply trying to survive.

God was writing a much bigger story.

That’s what I thought about while looking at that green toolbox.

When my stepdad handed it to me all those years ago, neither of us were thinking about Brighton. We weren’t thinking about grandchildren. We weren’t thinking about future generations.

Yet here I was years later, placing tools into that same box for my son.

The toolbox wasn’t really about tools.

It was about legacy and love.

Stories are one of the ways legacy gets passed from one generation to the next. Every tool in that box carries a story. Some helped repair things in our home. Others helped build things for our family. A few were used by Brighton right alongside me.

I want him to see more than tools.

I want him to see faithfulness.

I want him to see service.

I want him to see what it looks like to care for your family and help your neighbors.

Legacy has to start somewhere.

Pastor Sam’s final point was that the story ended better than anyone could have imagined.

By the end of Ruth, we are introduced to a little baby boy named Obed.

Obed later becomes the father to Jesse.

Jesse goes on to become the father of David. Yes, the shepherd David that killed Goliath and went on to become king.

And eventually, generations later, Jesus was born in the City of David, Bethlehem.

Think about that for a moment.

Ruth walked a dusty road from Moab with Naomi believing she was leaving everything behind.

She gathered leftover barley in a field just trying to survive.

Yet God was weaving her story into His redemption story for the world.

Ruth thought she was building a life.

God was building a future for generations.

Pastor Sam illustrated this by painting on a canvas toward the end of the sermon. At first, the picture made sense. Then he began adding colors and brushstrokes that seemed to make it messier. The image became harder to understand.

Life often feels that way.

We see the unexpected diagnosis.

The difficult season.

The unanswered prayer.

The disappointment.

The delay.

We focus on the paint splatters. God sees the finished masterpiece.

At the end of the service, Pastor Sam revealed a beautiful landscape with a path running through it.

The path had been there the entire time.

We just couldn’t see it yet.

LIVE IT

Most of us are staring at paint splatters right now.

A difficult season.

A relationship that feels uncertain.

A prayer that hasn’t been answered.

A dream that seems delayed.

A chapter that doesn’t make sense.

Ruth reminds us that God often does His best work before we understand what He is doing.

The masterpiece is coming.

Trust God.

Keep walking.

Keep obeying.

Keep believing.

God is always working.

Never forget that.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Have you ever looked back and realized God was doing more than you understood at the time?

2. What legacy has someone passed down to you that you hope to pass on to others?

3. Why is it difficult to trust God when we can only see part of the picture?

4. What unfinished area of your life do you need to place in God’s hands this week?

PRAY IT

Lord, thank You for being faithful even when we cannot see what You are doing. Help us trust You in the middle of unfinished stories and uncertain seasons. Remind us that You see the whole picture while we only see a small part of it. Give us the faith to keep walking, keep trusting, and keep following You even when the path ahead isn’t clear. Thank You for Your redemption, Your provision, and Your promises that never fail. Amen.

A Final Word from After the Amen

Four weeks ago, Naomi was grieving.

Ruth was uncertain.

Boaz had not yet entered the story.

The future looked anything but hopeful.

By the end, God had done more than anyone imagined.

Naomi saw loss.

Ruth saw a dusty road.

Boaz saw responsibility.

God saw a masterpiece.

Just sit back and watch the Artist work.

Grandma told stories about growing up in the kind of cold that didn’t just rattle your bones—it stuck to them. She’d describe relatives who’d wake up with snow on their quilts. Not a metaphor, literal snow, sifting in through the roof and settling right there on the bed. I have never once worried about snow making its way onto my comforter. I didn’t know then just how different her reality had been.

The barn in winter had its own atmosphere. A different smell—a mix of iodine, manure, and warmth. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. It wasn’t a bad smell; it was just the smell of a barn. When it was full of cows or calves, the barn was noticeably warmer, alive with steam and sound. You’d walk in and calves would start bawling immediately, knowing milk bottles were on the way. They’d gulp them down so fast you’d swear they were more straw than stomach. Milk frothing from their mouth dripping onto already damp hay.

The milk barn was noisy. Machines buzzing, cows shifting, clanking, lowing. But the second you stepped outside, it was quiet again. The contrast was stark. Inside was chaos and life. Outside, it was wind and silence.

Milking cows wasn’t just a chore; it was a lifeline. Sick calves meant sleepless nights. They had to be watched, doctored, fed, and sometimes dragged in. The farm didn’t clock out. If the cows weren’t okay, life wasn’t okay. That’s why Grandma talked about those midnight checks like they were as normal as brushing your teeth.

I still remember one afternoon—well before I turned sixteen—getting off the bus at Grandma and Paw Paw’s house with a friend. Back then, no notes were needed. I just walked to the front of the bus while it was moving, told the driver I was hopping off at Grandma’s today and that I had a buddy with me. Imagine that now.

We barely got in the door before Grandma said, “There’s a calf up on the hill, Maury Doyle. Go get it and bring it down.”

So I did what any farm-raised kid would do. I looked at my friend and said, “Come on.” I grabbed the keys off the hook above the sink at the backdoor and headed for the red Dodge Ram in the shed.

My friend’s eyes got real wide.

“Wait, she’s not coming with us?”

“Why would she?” I asked.

I drove us up that steep hill, found the calf, picked it up underneath it’s back legs, dropped it in the bed of the truck, and made our way back down. My buddy was white-knuckled the whole time.

Me?

Just another Thursday.

That was life on the farm.

And what’s wild is how seamlessly those habits and sayings have followed me into adulthood. These days, my version of “midnight doctoring” means checking on kids with fevers, sitting beside beds after bad dreams, or sleeping on the floor next to them when they need Mama or Daddy close by.

Parents know exactly what I mean.

The moment a child calls out in the middle of the night, you clock in.

It’s your job.

More than that, it’s your calling.

Our kids are who God gave us to care for. Sometimes those sleepless nights are reminders of how patient and faithful He is with us. We wake up worried, hurting, afraid, or needing reassurance, and He never tells us to handle it ourselves.

He shows up.

That’s what loving responsibility does.

The older I get, the more I realize Grandma and Paw Paw weren’t just teaching us how to work. They were teaching us how to be faithful.

Not in flashy ways.

In ordinary ways.

They were careful stewards. Waste was almost a foreign concept to them. Gifts were often handmade—quilts, food, crafts, things created with their hands instead of bought with a credit card.

If somebody was sick, supper showed up.

If somebody needed help, they helped.

Not because it was convenient.

Because it was the right thing to do.

And maybe the thing I remember most is how consistent Grandma was.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with one of my cousins, and Grandma came up. My cousin said something that stopped me.

“I remember your Grandma staying the same age my whole life.”

I laughed because I knew exactly what she meant.

I feel the same way.

Of course she aged. But somehow she didn’t.

Her personality stayed the same.

Her character stayed the same.

The only real change I ever noticed was that she softened when the great-grandkids started showing up.

I have a picture of her holding Brighton as a baby. She’s just staring at him. Not talking. Not posing. Just soaking him in.

That picture says a lot.

Consistency is becoming a rare thing these days. Everyone is busy. Everyone is adjusting. Everyone is chasing the next thing.

Sometimes I think we need to learn how to say no and slow down.

God’s faithfulness is what sustains us, but having faithful people in our lives is a blessing too.

You always knew where you stood with Grandma.

You knew what she expected.

You knew she would do what she said.

You knew who she was.

That kind of consistency creates security.

It builds trust.

And trust gives people room to grow.

The mud boots stayed beside the back door in a cardboard box. One of those boxes that holds a case of six-pack Cokes.

Always ready.

Not worn the whole day.

Not displayed on a shelf.

Just ready.

The work would come eventually.

A calf would need help.

A neighbor would need supper.

A child would need comfort.

When the moment arrived, you put on your boots and went.

That’s probably why I love the phrase Faith With Work Boots On.

Grandma would have understood it immediately.

The boots represented responsibility.

They represented readiness.

They represented doing what needed to be done.

And when I think about the legacy I want to leave my own children, it isn’t really about accomplishments.

I want Karen and the kids to know what I’m going to do before I do it.

I want my yes to be yes.

I want them to be able to answer questions for me when I’m not there.

I want them to know that Daddy did what he said.

No contradictions.

No surprises.

Just consistency.

Because when I look back on Grandma and Paw Paw’s life, that may be the greatest gift they gave us.

Not the farm.

Not the trucks.

Not even the stories.

The gift of knowing.

Knowing they would show up.

Knowing they would help.

Knowing they would be who they had always been.

And in a world that changes by the hour, that kind of faithfulness feels more valuable than ever.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ll be sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, our Lead Pastor Sam Landrith taught through Ruth chapter three and reminded us that God sometimes focuses on the issue as a whole instead of the symptom. Our human minds usually focus on the symptom or the immediate need.

You can watch this week’s message here:

The Ultimate Redeemer - Ruth 3 with Sam Landrith

READ IT - Ruth 3:1-18

This morning, Pastor Sam continued our journey through the book of Ruth, and one of his points immediately reminded me of a trip to the dentist that did not go according to plan.

Several years ago, I went in expecting to have a cavity filled. That was already bad enough because I’ve never exactly enjoyed dental visits. Who does? As the hygienist began cleaning around the tooth, part of it simply crumbled. Suddenly, there was a partial tooth where a whole tooth was supposed to be. She looked concerned, left me sitting there holding the little vacuum in my own mouth, and returned with the dentist.

If you’ve ever had a dentist leave the room and come back looking serious, you know that’s not encouraging. Especially, when the dentist keeps repeating, “It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.” I was like, “Are you telling me or yourself?”

They patched the tooth temporarily, but eventually I needed it pulled and replaced with a bridge. I walked into that appointment believing I had one problem. The dentist discovered a much deeper one.

As I listened to Pastor Sam teach through Ruth chapter 3, I couldn’t help but think about that story.

Ruth and Naomi had already experienced God’s provision. Ruth had gathered grain. They had food on the table. Life was improving. Yet the story was moving toward something much bigger than barley. Their greatest need had not been fully addressed. What they needed was someone willing to redeem what had been lost and restore their future.

OWN IT

One of Pastor Sam’s points was that Boaz recognized Ruth’s biggest need.

By chapter 3, Ruth had already seen God’s hand at work. She had found favor in Boaz’s field and returned home with enough grain to provide for herself and Naomi for the near future. From a human perspective, the immediate problem seemed solved.

But Boaz saw beyond the immediate need.

A kinsman-redeemer had the responsibility to protect, restore, rescue, and preserve a family’s future. The role was much larger than simply providing a meal or helping someone through a difficult week. Redemption involved stepping into someone’s story and changing its direction. Essentially, it was literally life changing.

That’s what makes this chapter so powerful.

So often, we pray about the symptom while God is working on the source. We ask Him to change circumstances, remove obstacles, or solve immediate problems. Sometimes He does exactly that. Other times, He is doing something deeper than we realize.

I’ve experienced that in my own life.

There were seasons when I prayed for a different job because I was convinced a new position was the answer. Looking back, I can see that God was shaping something much bigger than my employment situation. He was preparing me for a healthier environment, teaching me trust, and positioning me where He wanted me to be. What felt like a job problem at the time was really part of a larger process that I couldn’t yet see.

I think many of us live that way.

We focus on what is directly in front of us while God sees the whole picture.

Pastor Sam also pointed out that Boaz chose redemption rather than ridicule.

That statement stayed with me.

Boaz had every opportunity to dismiss Ruth, embarrass her, or send her away. Instead, he responded with kindness, dignity, and grace. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how closely that mirrors the heart of Jesus.

Pastor Sam referenced the famous Christ the Redeemer statue overlooking Rio de Janeiro. No matter where you are in the city, you can look up and see Christ standing there with His arms stretched wide. He also connected that image to the cross, where Jesus literally stretched out His arms for us.

That picture resonates with me because it reflects how Jesus continues to respond to His people.

Many Christians spend far too much time carrying guilt from sins that have already been forgiven. Satan loves reminding us of old failures, old mistakes, and old wounds. He whispers that God is disappointed, frustrated, or finished with us.

Yet Scripture tells a very different story.

God welcomed us when we were sinners. He pursued us before we ever pursued Him. He offered forgiveness before we deserved it. Every time we repent and return to Him, His arms remain open wide. His grace has not run out. His mercy has not expired. His love has not diminished.

That truth reminded me of a moment with one of my daughters.

We had an argument one day, and neither of us handled it particularly well. Harsh words were exchanged, feelings were hurt, and eventually we went our separate ways. Later, I went looking for her and found her sitting in her closet with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head hanging down.

I sat beside her.

I told her I loved her.

I told her I was sorry.

After a while, she apologized too, and together we moved forward.

Looking back, I’m grateful that reconciliation mattered more than winning the argument.

Grace has always been an important part of our home because grace has been such an important part of my life. Relationships thrive when people are willing to pursue restoration rather than keep score.

That’s exactly what Boaz offered Ruth.

And it’s exactly what Jesus offers us.

The final point Pastor Sam made was that Boaz graciously gave from his limited resources. He sent Ruth home carrying barley, but by the time she returned to Naomi, she was carrying something else as well.

She was carrying hope.

The grain would feed them for a season, but hope gave them something even more valuable. For the first time in a long time, Ruth and Naomi could see a future unfolding before them. They could see evidence that God had not forgotten them. They could see that redemption might actually be possible.

Hope changes people.

When hope disappears, discouragement settles in quickly. Life becomes heavier. The future feels darker. Even simple tasks become harder to carry.

I’ve certainly experienced disappointment, frustration, and difficult seasons. But I have never completely lost hope because my hope has never rested solely on circumstances. It rests on Christ and His redeeming love.

Ruth approached Boaz wondering how he would see her. She may have expected to be viewed as another widow in need of charity. Instead, she encountered someone who saw her value, her character, and her future.

The grain mattered.

The hope mattered more.

LIVE IT

Most of us are carrying something into God’s presence today.

A concern.
A struggle.
A frustration.
A prayer request.

Those things matter, and God cares about every one of them.

But this week, consider asking a different question.

Instead of focusing only on what you want God to remove, ask Him what He may be trying to accomplish.

What deeper work might He be doing?

What lesson might He be teaching?

What part of your character is He shaping?

What future blessing might He be preparing?

Ruth arrived at the threshing floor believing she understood her greatest need. By the end of the chapter, God had begun revealing something much larger.

The same is often true in our lives.

God sees farther than we do. He understands needs we haven’t yet recognized. He works on both the immediate problem and the deeper issue beneath it.

God doesn’t just fix the day.

He redeems the life.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Have you ever thought you had one problem, only to discover there was a bigger problem underneath it?

2. Why do people often try to fill spiritual needs with temporary solutions?

3. What is the difference between receiving help and experiencing redemption?

4. When have you experienced grace instead of judgment from someone you love?

PRAY IT

Lord, thank You for seeing beyond the needs we recognize and addressing the needs we often miss. Thank You for Your grace, Your patience, and Your redeeming love. Help us trust You when we cannot see the whole picture. Remind us that Your plans reach beyond today’s struggles and that Your desire is not simply to improve our circumstances but to transform our lives. Thank You for welcoming us with open arms and offering us hope through Jesus Christ. Amen.

Next Sunday in After the Amen

Next week, we’ll finish our journey through Ruth and see God’s redemption story come full circle. What began with famine, loss, and uncertainty will end with a reminder that God is always working toward a greater purpose than we can see in the moment.

See you next Sunday.

Tomorrow, June 3, 2026, marks twenty years for Karen and me. Twenty years married. Twenty years together. Almost twenty-six years together total. And somehow, after all this time, we still do not like being apart.

As I am writing this, Karen has been gone since Saturday taking Sophie to Universal Studios for her eleventh birthday. When Brighton turned eleven, Karen took him and surprised him with a Hogwarts letter welcoming him to school. Chloe got her turn a few years later with me, and now it was Sophie’s turn.

That’s kind of how we’ve always tried to parent. We’d rather build memories than just amass more stuff.

While one parent goes, the other one stays home and keeps the wheels turning for the rest of the crew.

And contrary to every sitcom husband stereotype ever created, the house did not burn down while Mama was away.

Because Karen and I are not amateurs.

The rhythm was different, sure. But not less steady. Things still have to keep going. Kids still need to eat. Laundry still has to be folded and put away. We still have to go to church. Work and school continue. Life still goes on.

Marriage is not 50/50 anyway.

Sometimes it’s 60/40.
Sometimes it’s 80/20.
And on bad days, it may be 20/80.

Healthy marriages are not built on keeping score. They’re built on both people trying to make the other person’s life a little easier.

Twenty years in, that’s probably the simplest marriage advice I know.

As I spent the week holding down the fort while Karen and Sophie were at Universal, I found myself thinking a lot about what twenty years of marriage actually looks like.

Monday night, the kids requested Daddy’s BTY burgers. That stands for Better Than Yours, which sounds arrogant until you eat one. Brighton even invited a friend over for supper, which I honestly loved. Growing up, our house was always open to friends. My Mama made our home feel safe and comfortable, and I want our kids’ friends to feel the same way about ours.

Every night before bed, Karen and Sophie would video call us. The kids looked forward to it every single evening.

Honestly, so did I.

I think that’s what I missed first. Bedtime.

Not because I cannot survive on my own but because that’s usually when Karen and I talk about the day. We talk about tomorrow. We decompress a little. We laugh. We solve problems. We sit in the quiet after the chaos.

And when your favorite person is not there, you notice it.

The house had a different rhythm all week.

Not bad.
Not broken.
Just different.

One thing I realized pretty quickly was that I needed to be a little less Daddy and a little more Mama while she was gone.

Not softer exactly. Just more intentional.

When frustrations got high, I found myself thinking, “How would Karen respond to this?” Because she usually balances me well, and without her there, I had to be more mindful about how I handled situations.

I think that matters.

Our kids are always watching us.

They’re learning how husbands talk about their wives when they are not in the room.
They’re learning whether marriage looks miserable or meaningful.
They’re learning if love becomes colder or deeper over time.

And I want them to know without a shadow of a doubt that their Mama and Daddy genuinely love each other and genuinely like each other.

That part matters, too.

Today, I took half a day off work so I could get things ready before Karen got home. I cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the floors, changed the bed linens, straightened the house, made sure there were no dirty clothes, and tried to make home feel restful again before she walked through the door.

Because nobody wants to come home exhausted from traveling and immediately step into chores and responsibilities.

You try to anticipate each other’s needs after this many years.

If I have had a rough day, Karen will cook my favorite meal or tell the kids to give me a little space to decompress.

When she is stressed, I try to take things off her plate before she even asks.

You learn each other.

Or at least you should.

Guys, you cannot wait around for your wife to hold up a flashing neon sign that says SOMETHING IS WRONG. At least in my experience, you better learn the cues.

Karen and I are wired differently, but we both work hard to make life lighter for the other person.

And honestly, I think that is what keeps a house steady.

Not perfection.
Not grand romantic gestures.
Just two people carrying the load together.

When I picked Karen and Sophie up at the airport today, I noticed something immediately.

I had a little more pep in my step.
My smile was brighter. The air was better.
My world felt right again.

Like a piece of the puzzle had come back home.

Twenty years later, I still look for her in a crowd.

I still want to tell her about the funny thing that happened during the day.

I still sleep better when she’s on her side of the bed.

And when she walks through the door, home feels like home again.

That’s a pretty good gift after twenty years.

A Four-Week Journey Through Ruth

Our church is walking through the book of Ruth, and each week after the service, I’ll be sharing a companion devotional tied to that morning’s sermon. Think of this less as sermon notes and more as carrying Sunday into the rest of the week.

Because if we are honest, most of us need help connecting what we hear on Sunday morning to what we live on Monday afternoon.

This week, our Lead Pastor Sam Landrith taught through Ruth chapter two and reminded us that God is always working and there is no such thing as a coincidence. And maybe, just maybe, your biggest pain might be your biggest ministry.

You can watch this week’s message here:

God Always Provides Ruth 2 with Sam Landrith

READ IT - Ruth 2:1-23

This Wednesday, Karen and I will celebrate twenty years of marriage. (Come back Tuesday for a Grit & Wit post celebrating that.)

Which is funny, because there was a time when I didn’t even want to go on our first date.

Back in September of 2000, a friend of mine kept trying to convince me to join a group date. I kept telling him no. I wasn’t playing hard to get. I genuinely didn’t want to go.

For about nine months, I had stopped dating altogether. I was tired of the cycle. Get dressed up. Make a first impression. Spend money. Wonder if anything would come from it. Then do it all over again.

Nah.

Every night before bed, I would pray and ask God to bring me my wife because I was finished looking for her myself.

Then a friend called and informed me that plans had already been made and I was going anyway.

So I went.

Karen and I and some other people played putt-putt and went out to eat. My first impression was that she was gorgeous. My second impression was that she was smart. Really smart. We started talking over dinner and while playing putt-putt, and I quickly realized she could keep up with my humor. She was catching my subtle jokes and firing a few back at me.

At the end of the night, I walked her back to her car. Without even thinking about it, I asked if I could call her sometime.

She said yes.

As I walked back to my car, I remember shaking my head and thinking, “What in the world am I doing?”

Twenty-six years later, I’m still glad I asked.

Looking back, there were so many moving parts that had to come together for us to meet. A cousin. A grocery store. A friendship. A fender bender. Another friendship. A group date I didn’t want to attend.

At the time, it looked random.

Now it looks like providence.

OWN IT

One of Pastor Sam’s points was simple but powerful: God always provides.

In Ruth chapter 2, Naomi and Ruth are struggling. They have no husband, no security, and very few options. Ruth goes out looking for grain and “just happens” to end up in the field of Boaz.

The problem with the phrase “just happens” is that it makes God’s work sound accidental.

It wasn’t.

Boaz was exactly where God wanted him to be.

Ruth was exactly where God wanted her to be.

And God’s provision was already waiting for her before she arrived.

It was customary for harvesters to leave grain around the edges of the field for people in need. God had already built provision into the system before Ruth ever knew she would need it.

That’s how God often works.

He knows our next steps before we do.

He prepares things before we arrive.

He provides before we even know what to ask for.

Ruth thought she was looking for grain.

God was putting her in Boaz’s field.

Ruth thought she was gathering barley.

God was gathering a redemption story.

The field Ruth walked into looked ordinary, but the extra barley was not the only provision she was about to harvest.

Pastor Sam also reminded us that provision does not mean there are no problems.

That’s an important distinction.

Sometimes we think God’s provision means He removes every obstacle, solves every problem, and smooths every rough road.

But that’s not what happened to Ruth.

And it hasn’t always happened to me either.

Years ago, I spent about eight months without a job. I remember the fear that came with that first day. How am I going to pay my bills? Am I going to lose my house? My car?

Those thoughts can get loud in a hurry.

But month after month, God provided.

He provided through odd jobs. He provided through generous people. He provided through opportunities I never expected. Somehow, there was always enough.

Not always extra.

But enough.

I continued to tithe during that season because who was I to withhold from God when He was so faithfully providing for me?

Looking back, I can clearly see God’s hand all over that season. At the time, I mostly saw the problem.

The biggest lie we believe during difficult seasons is that God has abandoned us.

He hasn’t.

The difficulty is just loud.

Another thing Pastor Sam said stuck with me all day. He quoted A.W. Tozer:

“It is doubtful whether God can bless a man greatly until He has hurt him deeply.”

I think there is truth there.

To have a Provider, you must first have a need.

If everything is always going well, it becomes easy to miss God altogether.

Some of the greatest lessons I’ve learned came from painful seasons. My parents’ divorce taught me how important it is to love my wife well and be present for my children. It also allowed me to connect with students who were walking through similar situations. I remember students thanking me simply for saying out loud that divorce doesn’t magically end when the paperwork is signed. Kids often carry those wounds long after everyone else thinks the crisis is over.

Pain is never pleasant.

But in God’s hands, it is never meaningless.

Your biggest pain might become one of your biggest ministries.

The same God who used Ruth’s hardship to position her for blessing can use our struggles for His glory too.

God always provides.

God always has a purpose.

God always keeps His promises.

LIVE IT

Where in your life are you dismissing providence as coincidence?

Maybe it’s a relationship.
Maybe it’s a closed door.
Maybe it’s a delay.
Maybe it’s a conversation.
Maybe it’s a season you don’t yet understand.

What if God is doing more than you can currently see?

Waiting on God doesn’t mean sitting still.

Ruth didn’t stay home waiting for provision to knock on her door.

She got up and went to the field.

Waiting on God means continuing to walk faithfully while staying attentive to His movement.

Keep walking.

Keep trusting.

Keep looking for God’s hand.

He is working even when you don’t see it.

DINNER TABLE DEVOTIONALS

1. Have you ever had something happen that seemed like a coincidence at first but later looked like God was involved?

2. Why do you think it is easier to see God’s provision in hindsight than in the moment?

3. What is the difference between waiting on God and doing nothing?

4. What are some ways God has provided for our family that we might overlook?

PRAY IT

Lord, thank You for being a God who provides. Help us trust You when we cannot see the whole picture. Give us eyes to recognize Your hand at work in ordinary moments and remind us that what looks like coincidence may actually be Your providence. Help us keep walking faithfully while we wait on You and trust that You are already preparing what we need before we arrive. Amen.

Next Sunday in After the Amen

We’ll continue our journey through Ruth as Boaz begins to step into his role as redeemer and we see an even clearer picture of the redemption God has been building all along.

See you next Sunday afternoon.

A few years ago, our family lost a man named Mr. Paul. He wasn’t related to us by blood, but somewhere along the way, he became family anyway.

The older I get, the more I realize men like him shaped far more of this country than they ever got credit for.

If you walked into the room, you might not have noticed him right away.

Mr. Paul was usually sitting quietly in a recliner in the corner, his black 101st Airborne hat sitting on top of his head as he simply took it all in. His eyes were always moving behind his glasses, observing, aware, present. Not nervous. Just attentive. Like someone who had spent a lifetime learning to pay attention to the world around him.

My Mama introduced him to us as “Mr. Paul,” and that’s what he became to our family. My kids called him “sir” first and foremost out of respect. Around our house, he was never “the war hero” or “the veteran.” He was just Mr. Paul.

And honestly, I think he liked it that way.

At any gathering we had, if Mama and Tom invited him, he would come. He didn’t really have a designated spot in the house, but we all knew the recliner was his. If one of the kids was sitting there when he walked in, they got up without being asked. It was just understood.

He was talkative and quiet at the same time, if that makes sense. He wasn’t a loud personality. He never made things about himself. But if you sat down beside him and asked about World War II, he would answer without hesitation. His voice sounded like someone who had lived a long life because he had. If wisdom had a tone, he had it.

I never saw him wear anything except that black 101st Airborne hat.

My youngest kids would run up to him with drawings or whatever toy they were obsessed with that week. He would take it carefully in his hands, look it over like it mattered, smile, and hand it back. Sometimes they would just grin at each other for a second like old friends.

They felt seen by him.

He was like an extra grandpa they got to have.

Karen always made sure he didn’t have to fix his own plate or carry it back to the kitchen when he finished eating. He was very mannerly and always appreciative. He would smile softly and say, “Thank you.”

That’s the picture I still see when I think about him.

Not the war stories.

Not the battles.

Just Mr. Paul sitting quietly in a room full of family, wearing his 101st hat while children showed him toys and drawings.

Then one day, my Mama and Tom started telling me more about his story.

And oh boy.

Paul Jackson was a World War II veteran in the 101st Airborne Division. After Pearl Harbor, he was stationed in California, but he felt called to do more. He requested to become a paratrooper. At the time, he was a staff sergeant, but his commanding officer denied the request.

Eventually, his former commander, General George Patton, intervened and Paul was allowed to transfer. But there was a cost. His captain stripped him of his rank.

At 21 years old, Paul willingly took a demotion from staff sergeant to corporal because he believed it was the right thing to do.

That tells you almost everything you need to know about the man right there.

He parachuted into Normandy on D-Day knowing full well it might be the last jump of his life. He fought in multiple battles across Europe and later jumped into Operation Market Garden, where he was wounded after a tank took a direct hit nearby.

Despite being injured, he climbed a hill, spotted an enemy rocket launcher team, and took out five soldiers by himself.

By himself.

Then came the Battle of the Bulge.

In the bitter cold of Bastogne, Paul was shot three times in the hip. He spent five months in the hospital before being honorably discharged from the 101st Airborne in 1945.

And yet…if you met him later in life, you would have never guessed the depth of what he had lived through.

He didn’t walk easily anymore. His movement was slow and deliberate. He got from Point A to Point B with as few footsteps as possible. Sometimes he would steady himself using furniture, or one of us would help him.

His body definitely remembered the war.

But he never carried himself like anyone owed him something because of it.

One time he bought one of those “high-tech” televisions and asked me to come hook it up for him. I went over to his apartment, which was neat, clean, and simple. There was an American flag hanging on the wall. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet apartment where an old soldier liked watching boxing and UFC fights on television.

After I got everything connected, he pulled out his wallet to pay me.

I laughed and told him there was no way I was taking money for hooking up a TV.

But he insisted for a moment because, to him, time and effort mattered. Gratitude mattered.

That generation understood something about humility.

Paul always thanked people when they thanked him for his service. His eyebrows would raise slightly, he would shake their hand, and quietly say, “Thank you.”

Not because he wanted attention.

Honestly, I think he was uncomfortable with attention.

He was just raised to show respect.

The older I get, the more I appreciate men like that.

Today, everything feels loud. Everybody is broadcasting themselves. Everybody wants recognition. Everybody wants credit.

But the strongest men I’ve ever known usually didn’t spend much time telling you how strong they were. Men like Paul simply did the right thing because they believed it was the right thing to do.

Even when it cost them.

Even when it hurt.

Even when nobody applauded.

I think that’s one reason Memorial Day matters so much.

It’s not just a long weekend. It’s not just cookouts and mattress sales.

It’s remembrance.

Not necessarily sadness, but respectful reflection.

Because freedom has names and faces attached to it.

Sometimes it looks like a 21-year-old paratrooper jumping into Normandy.

And sometimes it looks like an old man sitting quietly in a recliner while little kids show him small car and trucks or stuff animals.

I hope my children remember that.

I hope they remember that courage is not always loud.

I hope they remember that humility makes bravery even more powerful.

I hope they remember that Mr. Paul did the right thing even when the right thing was hard.

And I hope they remember that some of the greatest heroes you’ll ever meet might simply be sitting quietly in the corner of the room, smiling at children, saying “thank you,” while carrying stories most of us could never imagine.

Sometimes the only thank you people like that may ever fully receive will be in heaven one day.

And somehow, I think Mr. Paul would have been perfectly OK with that.

If you’re new here, Grit & Wit is where I write about faith, family, humor, legacy, and the kinds of ordinary people who leave lasting marks on our lives.