The Stairs

I saw you stop at the stairs tonight.

I saw you sit underneath the water longer than you needed to because you didn’t quite know what else to do with yourself. I saw you restless and tired at the same time, wondering why doing nothing can sometimes leave you more exhausted than doing everything.

I saw you walk into your son’s room. And I know why you wanted to stay. You weren’t looking for anything. You just wanted your son.

You wanted to crawl into that little bed because, for a moment, being somewhere he had been felt closer than walking back into another empty room.

I saw the towels, too. Folded neatly on the rack. Waiting. You look at them differently when the children aren’t home, don’t you? When they’re here, they’re just towels. Usually wet ones. Probably somewhere they aren’t supposed to be.

When they’re gone, they become evidence.

They were here. They’ll be here again.

But not tonight. And I know that hurts. You don’t have to convince Me that it doesn’t.

I was there this morning, too. The short window with them that turned into a walk that then somehow became an imaginary investigation.

I saw you put acorns and pinecones into your pockets as evidence. I saw you jump over puddles. I heard you yell, “Freeze!” and watched two little bodies stop in their tracks.

I was there for the rest of that gloomy Sunday morning, too. You keep wondering whether you’re giving them enough. Whether two hours matter. Whether they’ll remember.

My child, you are so busy trying not to forget their childhood that sometimes you forget they are remembering it too.

Maybe one day they’ll remember this morning. Maybe they won’t.

But childhood is made from thousands of moments no one realizes are becoming memories while they’re happening. They are learning something larger than the details.

They’re learning that Dad comes. Dad wants us. Dad plays with us. Dad listens. Dad delights in being our dad.

You don’t have to manufacture a childhood spectacular enough to compensate for the days you don’t have. Just love them when they’re with you. They know who Dad is.

I know what happened afterward. Two hours became a goodbye. And then it was over.

I know that’s the part that breaks something open inside you. Because you don’t only want the adventures. You want Monday morning. You want bath time. You want cartoons playing too loudly. You want somebody refusing to put on pajamas. You want spilled chocolate milk. You want to tell somebody for the fourth time to brush their teeth. You want the boring footage.

And I know there are moments when you want to scream: they’re my children. Why do I have to miss this much?

You don’t have to clean that sentence up before you bring it to Me. I already heard it.

You’re grieving a shape of life that will not exist the way you once imagined it. There are ordinary pieces of their childhood you will not witness. I will not insult your love for them by pretending that shouldn’t hurt.

Last night you were thinking about loneliness. About how many people can know your name without knowing your heart.

You wrote about wanting to be seen instead of merely observed. Understood instead of merely heard. Pursued instead of convenient. And underneath all of it was one aching question:

What would it feel like to be fully known and still fully loved?

You are.

Before you tell Me what hurts, I know. Before you explain why you’re angry, I understand. I know the confident version of you the world gets. I know the man building dreams and visions and plans. I know the father. I know the little boy still buried underneath him. I know the ambition. I know when that ambition is stewardship and when you’re using it to outrun silence.

I know the faith you talk about publicly and the questions you whisper when nobody else is around. I know the things about yourself you like. I know the things you’d rather nobody ever see. There is no curated version of you standing before Me.

I know you completely. And I have not left.

Maybe that’s why your children feel so precious to you. They don’t know everything about you yet. But they know you by one of the purest names you’ve ever been given.

Dad.

They don’t care about your career. They don’t care what you own. They don’t know whether you had a good month. They don’t care whether you were productive today. They don’t need the version of you everyone else seems to require.

They just want Dad.

I know how sweet that feels. And I know why their absence makes the house feel different.

You’ve been wondering why you can trust Me with almost everything except this.

You believe I have dominion over your entire life.

Your money. Your health. Your future. Your children. But the loneliness feels different.

Because you can’t build your way out of it. You cannot manufacture intimacy. You cannot force someone to know you. You cannot make another person choose you. You cannot change the custody calendar simply because your heart wants your children home. You cannot work harder and make Friday arrive sooner.

And you hate that. You are accustomed to finding the lever and pulling it. There isn’t always a lever here.

Sometimes there is only waiting.

I know you’ve been living fifteen steps ahead. I saw something as simple as the seventeen alarms you set. You weren’t really afraid of oversleeping. You were afraid of losing even one minute of the little time you had.

When they’re gone, you’re waiting for them to return. When they’re coming, you’re anxious about everything going right. When they’re with you, somewhere inside you knows the clock is moving. And when they’re gone again, the countdown restarts.

You don’t have to live their entire childhood in anticipation of the next goodbye.

Be where your feet are.

When they are with you, love them. When they are not, live. You are still their father on both days.

And when the silence becomes too much, you work. I know. You can outrun a lot of things with productivity. Until eventually life catches you.

Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes beside an empty bed. Sometimes looking at folded towels.

Tonight it caught you on the stairs.

You stood there looking at an ordinary staircase and suddenly felt everything. And somewhere inside all of it, you wondered:

Where are You in this?

My child—

I am on the stairs. I am in the quiet house. I am beside you in their empty room. I am present in the two hours. And I am present in all the hours afterward.

My dominion does not end where your loneliness begins.

Do you remember Lazarus? I knew exactly what I was going to do. I knew the tomb would open. I knew death wasn’t getting the final word. I knew he was going to walk out.

And I still wept.

Knowing what comes next does not make what hurts now painless. Trusting the Father does not require pretending grief isn’t grief. Hope does not make tears faithless.

I never asked you to become numb. So cry because you miss them. Walk into their empty room. Notice the towels. Stand on the stairs.

Tell Me you hate this. Tell Me you don’t understand. Tell Me you want your children.

I can handle the truth of your heart.

And keep asking. You have asked Me for healing. You have asked Me to make you a better father. You have asked for more time with your children. You have asked to be known. You have asked for companionship. You have asked for someone to share this strange, beautiful life with. You have asked for a home that feels full.

I heard you. Every time. You know My invitation:

Ask. Seek. Knock.

So ask.

Not because prayer gives you control over Me. Not because I have promised to construct every future exactly as you imagine it. But because children ask their Father for what they desire.

And your Father listens.

You keep wondering whether I’ve answered because you cannot see the answer yet. But don’t confuse not yet with not heard. There are things you cannot see from where you’re standing. There are stories still being written beyond the page you’re reading. There are prayers whose answers may already be unfolding in ways you cannot recognize yet.

And there will also be things you ask Me for that I may not give you the way you hoped.

If the answer looks different—

I am still good.

If something you desperately want never comes—

I am still good.

If the road takes longer than you wanted—

I am still good.

My goodness was never dependent upon giving you the exact life you would’ve written for yourself. You already know where I demonstrated My love for you.

Don’t believe the lie that I am wasting this.

I don’t waste things. Not the years that hurt. Not the marriage that ended. Not the fatherhood that looks different than you wanted. Not the loneliness. Not the quiet Sundays. Not the tears. Not the hours at home alone when you think you’re accomplishing nothing. Not the nights you lie awake wishing somebody knew what was happening inside you. Not the two-hour mornings.

Not even the stairs.

You may not know yet what I am making from all of it. You don’t have to. You aren’t holding the whole story.

I am.

So look at the towels again. They’re waiting.

Look at their bed. It’s empty tonight. It won’t always be.

Listen to the stairs. They’re quiet. They won’t always be.

There will be little feet in this house again. There will be wet towels. There will be noise. There will be bedtime negotiations. Your little girl will find her place beside you. Your little boy will ask you to lie down with him.

And eventually they’ll leave again. And it will hurt again. But they aren’t gone.

They’re growing. They’re living. They’re building memories of their own. And somewhere inside those memories is a father walking with them through a park with acorns stuffed into his pockets.

They will know.

To be fully known and fully loved? You are.

I see you. Not merely observe you.

I know you. Not merely hear you.

I pursued you. You were never merely convenient.

And yes—

I know all of you. I love you still.

So, cry if you need to. I wept, too.

Tomorrow will have enough of its own trouble. Tonight, just let yourself be known. I have dominion over the life you understand. I have dominion over the parts you don’t. I have dominion over the full house. And I have dominion over the empty stairs.

I am not wasting this.

I’ll see you farther up the trail.