Room for Both

Just 48 hours ago, a judge finalized my divorce.

24 hours ago, it was just another Saturday.

And today, I'm standing in the aftermath of what could have been and I'm ever hopeful for what's next—continuing to build towards something more. Life isn't stale. I'm not sad. If anything, I'm happier than I've ever been. Yet, I'm learning there's still room for both grief and joy.

I moved into a new house this past week. A house that I created for other people to enjoy. But now, although the way we got here wasn't as planned, I'm able to enjoy it by myself and with my kids. It's a house where the kids have their own rooms, their own playroom, new beds, space to roam. A place that's ours during the little bit of time I actually get with them. Where we can laugh, play, argue, cuddle, and rest.

Little man slept in his big boy bed. He's not even 3 years old yet and is sleeping like a champ in his own room and in his own bed. And my little girl, of course, continues to take up 99% of my king bed. I've come to terms that the day is fast approaching where that will come to an end, she'll get older and not want anything to do with me at some point, maybe. So I'm not going to fight it. I'll keep wearing little feet to the kidneys all night. The fact that she insists on sleeping in my bed points to the fact that she feels safest there when she's here. It's a privilege that she chooses to rest and let go of the chaos of the day by falling asleep on my shoulder when she's under my roof.

As for Saturday. They were up and moving at 5:30. Hey, that's sleeping in because the last few weekends it's been 5. But I made breakfast on the Blackstone. Neither one of them ate it, go figure. They're so picky these days and their main food groups are: yogurt, applesauce, goldfish and granola bars. They climbed into my lap instead and watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while I drank the rest of my coffee.

It was just a Saturday. Life just continued.

We got haircuts. Went swimming. Stopped by Grandad's house. Turned apple juice into slushies, which somehow became the greatest invention they'd ever witnessed. Played in the new playroom. Made dinner. Took baths. Read some books. Colored on the walls. And went to bed early because neither one of them had taken a nap. Looking back, it was a really good Saturday.

I tend to find myself being overly self-critical and doubting my parenting abilities. Probably because of the environment I was in for the last 4 years of my life. The doubt and guilt definitely creep in on the weekends though. Whenever I need thirty minutes to answer phone calls, respond to work issues, or solve problems while they're watching Bubble Guppies.

It's easy to tell myself I'm distracted. That I'm not present enough. That somehow thinking about payroll while making lunch means I'm failing them. But I realized something this weekend. That's how I experience myself. It isn't necessarily how they experience me. They don't need a perfect dad. They just need a dad who shows up and keeps on loving them.

I experience contractor calls. They experience swimming with Dad. I experience forecasting and employee questions. They experience apple juice slushies. I experience wondering whether I'm mentally present enough. They experience me laying on the floor playing with them before bed.

I've had to be told that kids don't remember every thought that passed through our minds. They remember what life felt like with us. That realization has given me more grace than I knew I needed.

Later this past Saturday afternoon, my daughter broke open the crayons and started drawing on the walls of the playroom. She was so excited, and shocked really, that she was allowed to do this. It's a small gesture on my end to allow them to feel 100% at home when they're at my house. I want them to look forward to coming here. I want them to play and laugh, and to feel like they're allowed to just be kids. And so it started with some letters she's been learning at daycare, a few numbers, some scribbles, and then before I knew it, I looked up and she had drawn her family.

Me. Her. Her baby brother. And mommy.

She looked up at me with complete innocence and asked if Mommy could come to the new house because she liked it here so much. A few minutes later she asked if we'd ever all live together again. I don't think she was asking because she expected the answer to be yes. I think she was asking the same question every child of divorce eventually asks.

"Will my family ever be together again?"

There isn't an answer that removes that sadness. There is only steady love. And honesty. The drawing wasn't really about crayons on a wall. It was a little girl's way of saying, "This feels like home… I just wish everyone I love was here."

Not long after that conversation she wandered off to find the new bath toys that had just been delivered by Amazon. As if nothing had happened. As if everything had happened.

It seems like children have such an incredible ability to carry grief and joy in the same little heart without feeling the need to resolve the tension. Maybe somewhere along the way we lose that. They're resilient. And their needs are so simple, so why do I always overcomplicate it? I'm learning to slow it down and simplify.

The night prior, I laid beside my son in his new big boy bed while he drifted off to sleep. He's never really been the clingy one until more recently. He's just the sweetest, most tenderhearted little boy you'll ever meet. He's funny, he's gentle. He's the man. Now that there's room beside him, he asks me to lay there for a while before he falls asleep.

Before he drifts off, I sing these words over him every night:

The Lord bless you and keep you. Make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord turn His face toward you. And give you peace. May His favor be upon you. And a thousand generations. And your family and your children. And their children, and their children. May His presence go before you. And behind you, and beside you. All around you, and within you. He is with you. In the morning, in the evening. In your coming, and your going. In your weeping, and rejoicing. He is for you.

When the song reached the refrain about God's blessing extending to our children and the generations that follow, the tears came. Then came the reminder that God is with us in our weeping and in our rejoicing. Somewhere between listening to my son breathe and hearing those words, I realized the song wasn't just for him. It was for me, too.

Paul writes something in 2 Corinthians that has always intrigued me: "Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing."

Sorrow first. Joy later. Right?

But that's not what Paul says. He doesn't describe a life that moves from grief into gratitude. He describes a life that somehow holds both at the same time. And maybe that's what this weekend was for me.

Sorrowful. Yet always rejoicing.

My daughter grieving the family she still longs for while laughing over frozen apple juice and mermaid bath toys a few seconds later. My son sleeping peacefully in a brand-new room while I quietly grieved what had been lost on his behalf. A judge signing papers one day. Breakfast, haircuts, swimming, and bath time the next.

For a long time I joked that this season had become my revenge tour. I know what I meant by that. I'm becoming the man I always wanted to become without friction or resistance. Building the businesses I dreamed about. Creating the home I always wanted my children to have that they never received in years prior. But revenge doesn't actually describe what I feel anymore. Revenge is about proving someone wrong. This feels more like becoming who God has been patiently shaping me into all along. The rest is just noise.

Purpose has quietly replaced proving. And maybe that's the real miracle. Not the new house. Not the businesses. Not even the freedom.

It's that my heart has become spacious enough to carry both grief and gratitude without demanding that one eliminate the other. Wholeness, I've realized, isn't the absence of sadness. It's discovering that Christ is spacious enough to hold both your sorrow and your joy at the same time.

Just 48 hours ago, a judge finalized my divorce.

24 hours ago, my daughter drew our family on the walls of our new home. A few minutes later she laughed because she opened an Amazon box that had mermaid toys for bath time.

And here it is Sunday morning. The kids are running around upstairs, and it's just another day.

Somewhere between these moments, I continue to catch glimpses of hope. Not because the sadness has disappeared. But because joy has refused to.

I'll see you farther up the trail.