Dear Judah

On fatherhood, faith, and calling

Mar 11, 2026

Hello!

Many of you get these writings through your email.

Please take a second to give this writing a heart to show you liked this post. By doing this you help these words find their way to more people who need a little hope.

Once a week I send out a poem, prayer, or story of hope for free.

Sign up below and get a bit of hope straight into your inbox.

Dear Judah

Dear Judah,

We are living in a wild, beautiful season.
You’re getting closer to two and a half years old, which somehow feels impossible and exactly right at the same time.
Mom is neck deep in work and holding down the house.
I just released a new book, Getting Through What You’re Going Through, and with the release came a book tour, which sounds glamorous until you’re standing in an empty hotel room eating Taco Bell at 1 AM knowing you have to be up in 4 hours.

This means, I’ve had to do the last thing I want to do: say goodbye to you and mom.
Before I close the door behind me I tell you I love you.
You wrap your arms around me and pull your face close to mine.
I ask you quietly, “How much does dad love you?”
And you throw your arms wide and yell, “So much!”
I whisper back to you, “I love you so much. I’m already almost home.”
Which is both a promise and a prayer.
And then I give you a high five and off I go.

You go back to playing trains and cars and as I close the front door I hear you tell mom, “Daddy be home soon.”
And it’s true.

These days, I am living torn.

There is a part of me that wants to freeze time, to sit on the living room floor and watch you build train tracks and magnet tiles. To press pause on the clock. To memorize the way your voice sounds right now. To catch every new word, every new expression, every small change that proves you are growing faster than I’m ready for.

I hate missing things. Even small things. Especially small things.

But I also want to set an example for you. To show you what it looks like to chase dreams and follow God, at least for me. Not everyone has to leave home for this. Not everyone is asked to walk it this way, but this is the road I feel invited to walk right now.

And I don’t always walk it bravely. Sometimes I shuffle or drag my feet and question why. Sometimes I argue with God a little. Sometimes a lot.

I want you to see a father who listens when God nudges.
A father who works hard.
A father who doesn’t bury his gifts out of fear.
A father who is imperfect and still shows up and gives what he has.

I want to live out what I believe God has called me to do.

After the shows, people line up and wait.
They tell me their stories in low voices, like they’re handing me something fragile.

Couples who have prayed for years for a baby and are still waiting.
Marriages hanging on by threads.
Divorces that shattered more than just paperwork.
Cancer diagnoses.
Parents whose arms ache because they are empty.
Unexpected funerals.
Faith that feels thin and tired.
Dreams that didn’t survive.
People wondering if they’ve been forgotten.

I look into their eyes and see heartbreak. Exhaustion. Deep pain. People trying so hard to believe that God still sees them, that he loves them so much.

And in those moments, I get to remind them that God does.

I get to wrap my arms around them and offer comfort. I get to tell them that their pain is not invisible. That their story isn’t over. That there is still hope. That Christ is still near to the brokenhearted. That one day everything is going to be okay, even if everything isn’t okay today.

You asked to read All the Things I Say to God as soon as I got home 😭

Judah, I have to believe this matters.

It matters that when someone is grieving the loss of a child, they hear that God is close.
It matters that when a marriage feels beyond repair, someone reminds them that resurrection is what God does.
It matters that when faith feels like a spark instead of a flame, that a spark is more than enough to keep a fire burning. God has always been good at growing something small.

That is why I go, even when part of me wants to stay.

I go because love compels me.
I go because I believe words can carry light into dark places.
I go because I want to provide for you, not just financially, though that matters too, but spiritually. I want you to grow up watching a man who believes that obedience is worth something and comfort is not the goal.

Though I will admit, comfort is very tempting.

There will be a day when I travel less, but for now, I have to go.

And wherever I go, I bring you with me.

When I sit alone in a quiet hotel room, I scroll through photos and videos of you playing in the sandbox.
When I walk onto a stage, I get to tell a room full of audience members that I get to be the dad of the sweetest little boy.
When I pray with my head on a random hotel pillow, I say your name to God, thanking Him for the gift you are.

I ask Him to grow you into a man who is kind and brave and tender.
I ask Him to protect your heart, soul, mind, body, and strength.
I ask Him to give you mentors and friends who cling to the faithfulness of God.
I ask Him to place dreams in your heart.

You are not competing with this calling.

You are part of it.

I want you to know something very clearly: you are never second to my dream.

One day you will have your own calling. Your own invitations from God. Your own tension between comfort and courage. And when that day comes, I’ll tell you about this wild, beautiful season.

I hope you remember that your dad loved you fiercely and loved the people he was sharing with.
I hope you see that faith is not always convenient. That obedience often costs something. That loving people well requires showing up, even when it’s hard.

And I hope you know that every mile between us has always been temporary.

I’m already almost home.

And when I get home, I will hold you close.

I love you.

So much.

Dad