You just never know, you know?

This is what I prayed for

Jan 10, 2025

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You just never know, you know?

It’s my first trip of the new year. I packed up my suitcase with enough underwear for a week, but I will only be gone for 3 nights. You just never know, you know?

I hugged Judah a little tighter and kissed him a dozen times before heading out the door. Today, he’s 14 months and 3 days old. When I return, he’ll be 14 months and 6 days old. But I’m not counting.

Leaving home is getting harder. Every time I walk out our front door to leave for a few days something rips inside of me. I am torn. Torn between the people I love and the work I have been created to do. I want to stay, I need to go. So, I went.

This is what I prayed for, I remind myself. It doesn’t erase the guilt or lessen the pain, but it brings my feelings into the light. I prayed to become a writer and speaker. I prayed to become a husband and father. And now I am all those things—a writer and speaker, a husband and father—feeling torn as I leave my family behind, placing the weight of responsibility on my wife’s shoulders.

I held back tears at the airport. It’s not that I am ashamed of crying, it’s just that I didn’t want to cry at the airport. More people have seen me cry than I can count. I’ve cried on stages while reading poetry and telling stories and while speaking about the overwhelming love of God.

Once, while delivering a message at a church, I broke down in tears for a solid minute. You may think that a minute is not a long time, but can you imagine being in the pews? You’re sitting there waiting for someone to tell you about how Jesus was raised from the dead or how God’s grace changes everything and instead you’re watching a grown man cry for an entire minute. Have you ever heard someone sniffle into a microphone? It will ruin your ears. Have you ever made people feel helpless and uncomfortable? I have.

So no, I’m not afraid to cry in public. Honestly, I could probably win an award for it.

Now, I sit within eyesight of my gate, waiting to board, trying to not think about leaving. I tuck my phone in my pocket and watch the best show on earth: Humans at the Airport.

A man talks loudly on speakerphone while picking his nose.

A young girl hurls her stuffed kitty at her dad, who’s trying to nap.

There’s near-collision chaos outside every bathroom.

A teenage girl dances in the corner, filming a Tik-Tok the internet desperately needs.

A grandmother nods off while reading a Danielle Steel novel.

A teenage boy fixes his shaggy hair every 2.9 seconds.

A couple takes photos of their brand new puppy as he relieves himself on the travel potty mat.

I see joy and frustration.
Tears and smiles.
Heaviness and hope.
Excitement and exhaustion.

Then, I see a father and his son walking in the sea of people. The boy is young. 2 or 3, but not 5. His hand is in his fathers. He is pointing and looking and trying to not trip over the feet he is still learning how to use.

His father carries two backpacks, while rolling a suitcase behind him. His hands are full and from the looks of it, so is his heart. They aren’t rushing, but they’re not lingering either—just moving forward, step by step.

The boy's shoe comes untied and he insists it be tied before they go any further. I watch the father kneel. I can hear his knees crack as he lowers his body to the floor. I feel the pain in his back as he drops the bags. I watch his mind calculate the time and tasks that need to happen before they step foot on the plane. The father is not frustrated, but he is fighting to hold fast to the joy of this adventure.

As the father ties the laces, the boy puts his small hand on his father’s shoulder, patting gently. Morse code for I love you or thank you or hurry up. Either way, it is love.

The boy looks over at me.
He gives me a smile.
I give him one back.
We don’t break eye contact.
His eyes stay on me.
It was like he knew something wasn’t right.
It was like he knew I was sad. It was like he knew I missed my son.
It was like he knew I was feeling torn.
It was like he knew he couldn’t fix my sadness, but knew it was worth acknowledging.