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We went for a walk this evening. My wife, our dogs (Maple and Olive) and I, in our new neighborhood, in our new city, in our new state.
And we were charged by a dog. A large, black dog. On a dark, black night.
Scared the absolute poop out of us.
Thankfully, Maple and Olive are non-reactive so they honestly were just excited to meet this strange, aggressive, dark-as-night demogorgon dog. And thankfully, this interloper was more afraid of me than we were of him. So after I stopped screaming like a girl, I stood my ground and chased the dog back home. (Just kidding, I didn’t scream like a girl… I would never do that.)
All that to say, we cut our walk short. Went home. Brewed some hot tea and told our nervous systems to calm down.
You’d think it was just a minor hiccup in our day. But honestly, it felt like more than that. It wasn’t just about the dog, it was about feeling unprotected, alone, like interlopers in a place that hasn’t become home yet.
Walking in faith and obedience is a weird thing.
You find yourself resting in the peace of knowing you’re where you’re supposed to be even if you don’t truly understand the reason behind it, while simultaneously mourning pieces of the life you had before.
I am in pain. That is a factual statement. It’s honest. It’s my reality.
When I slow down, when I put my phone down, in the quiet of the evening or the silence of early morning, in the glow of Christmas lights, I feel it.
We moved a number of weeks ago. Away from friends who became family. Away from a church that brought so much healing. Away from everything we knew and everyone we trusted.
And now, things aren’t where they were. They aren’t what they were. I’m not where I was—or who I was. And it feels different.
It hurts knowing that we had to say goodbye. It hurts because we left the first place where I felt whole in my entire adult life.
The double-edged sword of growth, of working on yourself, of pursuing and finding healing—is that you realize pain and grief are not enemies. They’re invitations.
Invitations to sit quietly and face the things that we did not expect: the loss of a loved one, the breakup, the unexpected move. Grieving invites us into the hurt, into the ache. Into what we so often try to numb.
There’s still part of me that wants to numb the pain—to self-medicate, to chase distractions that make me feel better, or feel nothing at all. But that’s like taking Tylenol for a toothache. It may soothe the symptoms, but it will never solve the problem. And much like a toothache, grief left unaddressed only gets worse.
I think what I’m learning now is that while grief feels like a very dark night, its call is an invitation to find beauty through the pain. An invitation to keep walking, even when it hurts. To trust that the light isn’t gone—just waiting to be seen through the dark.
And maybe, in time, I’ll realize the pain was never the enemy. It was the reminder that I’m still alive, still growing, still being made whole.
So for now, I’ll accept the invitation as best I can. I’ll sit with it—the ache, the stillness, the questions. I’ll let grief be my teacher, and grace be my anchor.
And maybe, somewhere in the middle of it all, I’ll start to see the northern lights, the colors of healing, begin to glow.
It doesn’t escape me that tomorrow is Father’s Day. For many, it’s a celebration. For some, it’s complicated. And for a more rare few, it’s a quiet, empty ache.
If you’re like me, you’re somewhere in the middle.
I’ve not seen my father in person in 5 or 6 years. Not so much because of a falling out, though that definitely happened, but more because of distance, and choice. I’ve not gone to visit him and he’s not come to visit me. And that is, weird. I don’t know what to think (or feel) about that. I’m conflicted.
I don’t know if I miss him as much as I miss what I should have had. A role model. A mature human. Someone to follow. I don’t blame him… or at least I understand the limited cards he was dealt as a child and young man. And I have tremendous empathy for him. He’s just as broken (or even more so) than I was.
But it still feels unfair.
I get it. First world problems. And there are people out there who have walked through so much worse. But it’s still the reality I face. And if I’m honest, conflicted doesn’t seem big enough. It doesn’t. It seems… incomplete, inadequate, too small, to describe how I feel about all of this.
On the one hand, I’m a grown adult. I’m successful at what I do. I’m happily married.
On the other, I’m a scared 10 year old who simply wishes his dad never left and that his parents never split.
I had dinner with a few buddies yesterday. And we ate and conversation flowed, we opened up and shared how none of us come from families that are remotely functional. And as we talked, I was struck by two feelings. The first, how grateful I am to have friendships like this. The second, how I felt when they talked about raising their children.
It struck me then that in it within just a few short days their wives would be celebrating them. Their kids would give them handmade cards. Or pasta-art. Or something else covered in glue and glitter and beautiful mess. Something tangible that says they’re fathers. And they’re doing a good job. Something they’d get to hang on their fridge. Or stick in their bible. A memory of a moment in their journey of fatherhood that they could keep for the rest of their lives.
Did I romanticize it? I did. But did it prick the “I’m totally ok” facade? Yes, it did.
Maybe the word isn’t conflicted. Maybe it’s grief.
Not over what I lost — but over what never was.
I miss the me who used to write all the time. I feel like I’ve abandoned him. And I’m almost afraid to look for him.
Maybe because I’ve changed? Or maybe because I’m afraid he won’t be there? Or maybe it’s simply because the me who used to write all the time was more acquainted with himself.
Marriage is funny. It’s this beautiful, amazing, life-giving journey with someone who choses to walk next to you. And it’s also the single most difficult thing you’ll ever do.
I think when I got married, I walked away from the me who wrote all the time. Maybe because I was ashamed. Ashamed because the me who wrote all the time was comfortable with discomfort, was ok asking questions and not having answers. And maybe, just maybe, I bought into the lie that once I got married, once I had a wife who counted on me, that I needed to have all the answers.
She never expected me to have all the answers. No one expected me to have all the answers. I expected me to have all the answers.
I don’t have all the answers. I know I don’t.
But it’s this nagging doubt. This voice that whispers that I won’t be enough if I need to ask for help, that I’m somehow less of a man if I admit I don’t know how how to do something… and (gasp!) ask for help from someone else.
My wife sees it. She sees my struggle here. And she gives me grace.
But more than that, I need to face this. I need to be vulnerable, and ask for help.
I never really know how to write these posts.
Mother’s Day is hard. It just is.
If you’re new to our lives, or new to our story; Welcome! We’re infertile!
I know, this isn’t really the type of thing you share upfront in a relationship, but once you hit 40 and you’re married, the whole “Got any kids?” question comes up in almost every relationship. You can’t escape it. And I’m not saying it’s something we should be able to escape, just explaining that after 12+ years of walking this road, it’s the reality we face.
Today’s post though, isn’t just about our infertility journey. Today, I’m writing to tell you about my person.
If you’ve not met my wife, you’re missing out. Yes, I’m biased. And no, she’s not sitting next to me threatening to only ever allow decaf coffee in the house unless I write nice things to say about her. I promise that’s (wink) not (wink) happening (WINK).
All kidding aide, my wife is someone I want to be like when I grow up. Her trust in her Heavenly Father is breathtaking. We’ve been married a dozen years, we’ve been through some shi….stuff. And I’ve seen her stand on who her God is. In good times and bad, Jesus is her safe refuge.
She’s also incredibly intelligent. She loves learning. I mean, just loves to learn. Give her a YouTube video on coding, or calligraphy, or using AI, or a new exercise or make-up technique and she’s a happy camper.
But I think what I love about her the most, is how she’s walked these last 12 years. (I know, I promised that this post wouldn’t be about our infertility journey…. sorry.). I remember vividly the first diagnosis. And the following diagnosis. And the doctors visits and procedures. I remember knowing I could do nothing to fix the issue, but be there.
So I did. And by being there I saw how this beautiful, amazing, loving, intelligent and creative woman chose to lean on Christ. In the midst of things that didn’t make sense, in the middle of the mystery, she chose to believe that the One who chose her, hadn’t forgotten. She chose to believe there was (and is still) a plan for her life.
And I’ve seen God move.
I’ve seen His healing in her life. I’ve seen His freedom in her life. I’ve see Him use our story, her story, to bring light to others.
I love the Jesus in her.
And if I could tell her anything this Mother’s Day weekend it would be this;
Your story is not over. Our story is not over. He who began a good work in you, will complete it. You are beautiful and strong and wise, and your future is bright. And I love you, with my whole heart.
We fear the storms of life.
The real ones.
Trust me. I know. I live in tornado alley.
Each spring my wife, our dogs, and I spend a few afternoons or evenings in our basement next to the weather radio as sirens go off.
Two years ago, in early December, we found ourselves huddling in a theater basement with a few hundred other folks as a tornadic supercell moved through the region. We were there for a Christmas concert. The concert still went on, and it was all the more beautiful because of the shared experience…. but the band has yet to return. (Looking at you, Over the Rhine…). I digress.
Storms are scary. Both the real ones and the other storms life brings. You know the ones. The ones that can be even less predicable. Not tornadoes or supercells, but job changes, relationship issues, or the illness of a loved one.
A storm comes. An unexpected phone call with an unwelcomed diagnosis, a pink slip, word that someone you love is moving, a senseless loss, or the ramifications of our bad decisions…. all storms. All basically unpredictable, all with the power to bring pain.
And we suddenly feel unmoored. Tossed by the unexpected winds. Unsure which way is up and wondering if it’d be easier to simply turn tail and run than turn into the storm and face the winds headlong.
The things we put our faith in, we rely upon for happiness and peace, all are prone change or break. None are eternal.
Just a year ago, my wife and I were navigating a cancer scare (I wrote about it here). We got through it. Yes, it was scary. Yes, there was fear. But, we got to the other side of it. And she is ok. But for whatever reason, in spite of how often I am carried through the storms, I still fear them.
I’m realizing I shouldn’t be afraid. Yes, storms are powerful and dangerous things. Yes. They are scary.
But if I truly believe in the God of the Bible, then I must believe He is more powerful than the storms. And, I must also believe He knew the storm was coming even when I didn’t. The storm may have caught me by surprise, He wasn’t surprised.
And, if the Bible shows us anything, it shows us that storms are to be expected. They’re part of life.
So maybe you’re facing some storms tonight. Maybe the holidays are overshadowed by something unexpected lurking around the edges. Maybe someone is missing. Maybe you’re living someplace new and you’ve not found “home” yet. Or maybe you live at home, but it doesn’t feel like it. Or maybe you’re facing something huge that left you breathless, whatever it is….
The God of the Bible is bigger than the storm you’re facing.
Sometimes He calms the storms that surround us, and sometimes He gets in the boat with us and says…
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this together.”
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This weekend always brings a flood of emotion to Erin and I. A weekend of celebration, and rightfully so, for so many. A weekend where we celebrate our moms, grandmothers, aunts and the moms we adopted along the way.
But if you’re the 1 in 15 of couples who struggle with infertility, this weekend is different.
If you’re the 1 in 100 that has lost a child, this weekend is different.
This weekend may not be one of celebrating.
Maybe you didn’t go dress shopping for a new outfit. Maybe you won’t go to church this Sunday. Maybe you smile and celebrate with your friends while putting on a brave face that hides a desire long unfulfilled.
Maybe this weekend is more questions than answers.
Maybe this weekend will be different, because things are different.
My wife and I have walked this infertility journey for a decade. The entirety of our marriage. We have felt alone. We have felt lost, and we have felt loss. And I’ve not always handled it well. My wife would tell you that for a long time I didn’t want to be a dad.
For most of my life, I was terrified of making the same mistakes my father made. So in my late teens, I came to the conclusion that I’d simply never have kids. It was simple, I could not mess up that which I do not have. I am incredibly grateful for the healing I’ve experienced since those days, I’m not that person any longer.
But still. Different.
It’s different when the very first question anyone asks is ‘do you have any kids?’. It’s different when you’re on a first name basis with your dog’s physical therapist but have never met a pediatrician. It’s different when you’ve made new friends, but you struggle to invite them over because you don’t have kids for their kids to play with, you don’t have a kids room they can play in.
It’s just, different.
But if I could say one thing to my wife, and to anyone who resonates with our story, it would be this.
Yes, things are different.
Circumstances are different. Hard and painful questions exist that do not have answers.
Yes, this weekend will be different.
But you are not different.
You not broken.
You are not forgotten.
Your story is not over.
You are not different.
2022.
May the light You shine be reflected in my actions.
May the Love you show be seen in how I treat others.
May my words be few. And when I do speak, may they bring the life You died to give us.
May I decrease. May You increase.
I celebrated a friends birthday a few weeks ago. Lots of conversation, laughter, delicious burgers and shawarma (yum!), it was a lovely evening. We celebrated someone I’m honored to call friend and grateful that he calls me the same.
As we toasted the evening, he said something that struck me. He looked to the guys around the table and thanked us for consistently showing up.
Whether it is breakfast at 6am before work (slightly later on Saturday mornings), or coffee in the evening, he and I get together a few times each month. The fellowship is refreshing and encouraging. I’m a better man and husband because of his friendship.
But the words he chose that night stuck with me and I realized something I’ve been pondering ever since.
That evening I realized that life isn’t necessarily lived to the fullest by those who have all the answers (who does?), or even any of the answers. I realized being a part of the most important moments, being there for the hardest moments and the most meaningful moments, that living a truly full life doesn’t require you to be a great cook, or an excellent conversationalist, you don’t even have to be all that good at making friends.
I realized that life is lived fullest by those who just show up.
I said goodbye to a friend earlier this week. I wasn’t able to attend his memorial service, and being honest, we’d not talked in years. But I still considered him a friend. Most definitely someone who influenced my life during some of my most formative years.
Goodbyes suck.
Because they bring back memories. And while the memories bring joy, they also bring pain. I say all this not because memories of this lion of a man bring me pain, but because they Delorean’d me back 20 years.
I grew up in a very (so I thought) typical white, suburban, religious, household. We went to church, I had friends, we lived in the suburbs. Everything was normal.
It wasn’t until around 2000 that the paint covering the cracks in the foundation of my family unit began to peel, and the true nature of our home began to show itself.
In September of 2001, just two days after 9/11, my family left for what was supposed to be a two week trip to Texas. My youngest sister was fighting, and losing, a battle with an eating disorder and my parents were trying to find her help. By mid-October, it was clear this wouldn’t be a two week trip.
The years leading up to this were some of the most amazing of my life. I was a leader in my church and serving as a sound-guy regularly during worship services. I had two jobs I loved. I was really into the contemporary christian music scene and by the time I was 20, I was working full time in christian retail and christian radio. I had my own christian music radio show.
Music and worship. I loved music and I loved to worship. And I did all I could to surround myself with them.
Throughout 2000 and 2001 I’d been heavily involved with a prophetic worship group. We’d meet each week on Tuesday evenings and worship till 11 or 1130 some nights. Throughout that time, I was able to run sound for some of the most gifted musicians and vocalists I’ve worked with (including the friend I had to say goodbye to this week). I still count it an honor. Even as my familial world was fragmenting, this was a beacon of light, much needed normalcy as my life was fast sinking into chaos.
Our efforts culminated in an actual CD. We’d recorded an album. A release party was scheduled, we’d invited a choir to join us, it was without a doubt the most important event I’d ever run sound for and I was so incredibly excited.
November 2001, I can still remember the moment my phone rang. Soundcheck. I never answer my phone during soundcheck. But, it was my mom.
The floor dropped out.
Dad had left them. In Texas. He’d abandoned my mom and sisters in an empty apartment.
No jobs. No furniture (they were sleeping on the floor and using lawn chairs someone had donated. No money. No food.
During counseling, my sister began to talk about the abuse. The molestation. My other sister confirmed it. His depravity came to light and he fled, like a coward.
I hung up the phone and continued with soundcheck. What else could I do? But I was on autopilot. I was devastated. I was stunned. I was shaken.
I ran sound.
I went to the after-party.
I couldn’t see straight.
I left a few minutes into it.
That evening, forever stolen by the actions of my father. And I had no idea that this was just the beginning. Everything from that point forward, would forever be different.
My wife and enjoy different types of TV shows.
She loves good mysteries and the Hallmark channel. Stories with mostly happy endings. Murder, She Wrote and Magnum, PI reruns are regulars in our living room.
I love true-crime, the unexplained and the unknown. Unsolved Mysteries, X Files reruns and Stranger Things stream on my PC regularly
But — there are shows we both really enjoy. The Amazing Race being one of them.
Earlier this evening I was reminded of one of our favorite teams.
If you watched the show, you may remember father and son team, Mel and Mike. They were on for two different seasons. I remember watching both seasons and seeing this incredible love that Mel (dad) had for Mike (son). He was proud, but he wasn’t just proud. He rejoiced in his son and celebrated with him. It was one of the most pure father/son relationships I’d ever seen on TV.
It’s been a number of years since we watched those two seasons. I hadn’t thought about either of them until I happened to see an article online and it lead me down a small internet rabbit-hole. A rabbit-hole that lead me to a deeper understanding of the love Mel has for his son.
Mel (Dad) had been a Reverend. Back in the 80s he was a well respected ghostwriter and speech writer for nationally known televangelists.
And he was gay.
In the closet. Married.
He tried for years to ‘fix’ himself.
Can you imagine the shame he felt?
To be gay in the 80s was hard enough but to be an evangelical Christian as well? I cannot imagine anyone feeling more alone. Knowing that if the truth was exposed, he would most likely have been ostracized, abandoned by every friend. He would have been shunned. An outcast. Immediately unwelcome and unloved.
Fast forward a few decades. He’s on the Amazing Race with his son.
His gay son.
And I got it. It all of a sudden made sense.
Mel, first and foremost a father, wanted what every father wants for his son. He wanted to ensure his son never experienced the hurt and shame I can only imagine he experienced in the 80s and 90s.
So he chose to love his son fiercely. He chose to celebrate his son. And he chose to be proud of his son.
We could learn so much from that simple example.
May we love that fiercely. And we may know we are already loved that fiercely.
FindingTheCourageToDream.com 