What is the Bible to us? Has estrangement from our beloved strangers turned us callous to it? Is it gathering dust because just opening it is too painful? Does it weigh seven tons because of the baggage humans have added to our spiritual journeys?

Or are the Scriptures a source of hope? Do they gently remind us of the nature and power of God? Do we find our voice and our story in its thin pages that sound like the fluttering of angels’ wings when flipping to find a favorite passage?

Think about this: the longest chapter of the Bible is a song. Psalm 119. Arranged around the Hebrew alphabet, this song is a glorious anthem to the Word of God. In the original Hebrew, it has a rhythm and a pulse—like a drumbeat—that no English translation has been able to capture without losing the meaning. In every verse, all 176 of them, the Scriptures are extolled with wonder.

When John sat down, inspired by the Holy Spirit to write his Gospel, he chose four small letters to encapsulate the entirety of the immensity of our “God, in three Persons, blessed Trinity”: Word.

The writer of Hebrews likens the Scriptures to a two-edged sword, alive, moving, so sharp and strong it could pierce or slice through anything, plus the ability to discern the thoughts and intentions of the heart. Paul calls it “the sword of the Spirit.” That’s like Excalibur, Masamune, a blue lightsaber, and Andúril combined.

If the Bible is all of that, why do we keep our own counsel, especially concerning our estrangement? We know the Bible is greater than any internet-based “no contact” expert, deeper than any clinical psychologist, more profound than any philosopher, and wields more scalpel-like theological precision than any seminary professor, pastor, or devotional writer can.

My answer: There are two Bibles. Before the villagers light torches and grab pitchforks to come after me, allow me to explain.

The Holy Spirit-inspired Word of God, inerrant in its original autographs, is the mighty, gleaming two-handed battle sword the writer of Hebrews describes.

The snatches of Scripture we have “hidden on our hearts” (Psalm 119:11) are like the sword used to pierce a cherry and a chunk of pineapple in a tropical beverage.

There are two Bibles in our lives, and we pretend they are one and the same. Our trouble is with the little one, not the real one.

Imagine how you’ve seen swords forged in movies or television shows. A master blacksmith combines several metals into a woven heap, heats, pounds, heats, and pounds the metal to strengthen and purify it. He heats and pounds and heats and pounds some more until the metal is compressed, hardened, and well-balanced. And then, that craftsman hones and sharpens it by dragging the blade along a rock until the sword becomes a useful masterpiece.

Has your Bible, the one inside you, been to the forge? I’d guess mine is about the size of Reepicheep’s. I wish that weren’t so. It needs more metal, more heat, and more pounding. If yours, like mine, is toothpick-sized, that means we need the great Metalsmith to heat us and shape us. And yes, where needed, pound us. Remember it is Christ, the Word, in us who is the hope of glory. May God’s hammer strikes draw us to read it more, pray it more, meditate on it more, hear it preached more, and memorize it more not because our effort alone will bring about changes, but because “it is God who is working in you both to will and to work according to His good purpose.”

So, go to the forge. The reason I place meaty passages at the end of every devotional is for my own heart, to remind myself of the grace of God’s hammer and heat. That’s the best thing for our estranged parents’ hearts. We could watch more reaction videos, seek validation in online forums, or distract ourselves by scrolling. Or we could take a few minutes to allow God to heat and pound on our inside Bibles. We will need to be strong, balanced, and sharp to endure the separation from our children.

Tell you what. I’ll try the Read challenge below and ask God to press His Word more deeply into me. Will you join me? Let me know how it goes in the comments.

Read: Stand in your prayer closet à la Matthew 6:6, or in another private space, and read all of Psalm 119 aloud.

Pray: Pray the prayer below, or, when your own words and ideas kick in, pray those instead.

Write: Write a letter you will never send to your beloved stranger, outlining a passage of Scripture that means much to you. Write out, in longhand, the entire passage, not just the address.

Listen: “The Word” by Sara Groves

So What: At the darkest moment of my estrangement, I read in John 6 about how Jesus’s disciples were grumbling. John says, “From this time many of His disciples turned back and no longer followed Him.” Then Jesus turned to his own disciples and asked them if they wanted to leave, too. Peter said, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Where else should you and I go as estranged parents than to the Word who has the words of eternal life?

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A Prayer of Thanksgiving About the Bible

Lord, You were before the beginning and in the beginning. You are in our now. And You will be in our future.¹ We worship You as the Word—the One who spoke creation into existence,² the One who walked beside Adam in the cool of the day,³ and sat with him as he gave names to the animals.⁴

Oh God, we come to You and ask for the Word to dwell richly in us.⁵ Will you allow us to see Your hand, the one that formed the world and is forming us, establish us for today and forevermore?⁶ ⁷

We worship You and thank You that You demonstrated the power of the Exodus, foreshadowing that Your Son would lead us out of our sins.⁸

We praise You for Your Word that established the Law—not to oppress us, but to show us that we are incapable of keeping the Law, even for one day.⁹ Thank You that the Law points us to our deep core need for a sacrifice on behalf of our sin.¹⁰ And thank You for Your Son who laid down His life for us.¹¹

We thank You for the model in Scripture of courageous but broken men and women. Their narratives show us how to cling to You, how to fight for You, and how to believe in You.¹² And we thank You for the cautionary tales that show the consequences of not doing those things.¹³

We thank You for the literature of the Bible, Job, that points us to You, that reminds us that You give and take away, but blessed be the name of the Lord.¹⁴ We thank You for the songbook of the Bible, the Psalms, that lifts our eyes to the mountains, from where our help comes.¹⁵ Thank You for the Proverbs that show us skill for everyday living,¹⁶ for Ecclesiastes that demonstrates the pitfalls of our humanity,¹⁷ and for the Song of Songs that paints beautiful pictures of the love of husband and wife and of Bridegroom and bride.¹⁸

We thank You for those who were courageous to stand in the gap¹⁹ and point Your people to You—and point Your enemies to You as well. They spoke of the days and ages to come, when Messiah would come, and when Messiah would come again.²⁰

We thank You that, as the Old Testament closes, You remind us that You are at work to turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the children to their parents.²¹

We thank You for the period of silence where Your people kept faith.²²

We thank You for genealogies that show how You’ve been at work for centuries.²³ We thank You for stories of miracles that demonstrate Your power.²⁴ We thank You for insight into You, Jesus, when You were here on earth.²⁵ Thank You for the reminder that You often went to a quiet, solitary place to pray and worship the Father.²⁶

Thank You for the stories of men and women who believed.²⁷ We thank You, too, for the pictures of religious hypocrisy.²⁸ Thank You for giving us eyes to see ourselves in both.

Thank You for the missionary zeal of Your disciples and for how they took Your Word to the ends of the earth despite the pain and suffering they endured.²⁹

Thank You for the reminders of how to live with our brothers and sisters, the instruction for how to behave as husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, and for the guidance on how to raise our children.³⁰

Thank You for the reminder that You are our High Priest, and that You are the fulfillment of Scripture.³¹ ³²

We rejoice! We echo that there is no greater joy than to see our children walking in the truth.³³ And we look forward to You making all things well in the new heaven and new earth,³⁴ when You come again, destroy evil, and establish Your kingdom.³⁵

We worship You, Speaker of the Word. We thank You for hundreds of thousands of faithful men and women through whom You have preserved the Bible³⁶—from scrolls on animal skins, through translations, through those who protected it, through those who died in the fire for it, through those who brought it to the New World, who typeset it, computerized it, cross-referenced it, created concordances for it, preached it, wrote commentary on it, and brought it to our palms as well. Thank You that Your Word was launched into outer space. And most of all, thank You that You implanted Your Word deep inside of us and are using it to transform our hearts and minds for Your glory and Your Son.³⁷

We love You, Lord, and we pray in Jesus’s name. Amen.³⁸

A Promise to Pray

We promise to pray by name for your beloved strangers. If you would like us to pray, please leave a comment or send a private message with their names.

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Thanks, Dolly!

Footnotes from the Prayer

1. Revelation 1:8

2. John 1:1–3; Genesis 1:3

3. Genesis 3:8

4. Genesis 2:19–20

5. Colossians 3:16

6. Genesis 2:7 (thematic)

7. Hebrews 13:8 (thematic)

8. Exodus 12; 1 Corinthians 5:7

9. James 2:10; Romans 3:20

10. Galatians 3:24; Hebrews 10:1–4

11. John 15:13; 1 John 3:16

12. Hebrews 11

13. 1 Corinthians 10:11

14. Job 1:21

15. Psalm 121:1–2

16. Proverbs 1:1–7 (thematic)

17. Ecclesiastes 1:2, 14 (thematic)

18. Song of Songs (book); Ephesians 5:25–32 (typology, thematic)

19. Ezekiel 22:30

20. Isaiah 9:6–7; Micah 5:2 (thematic — the Prophets generally)

21. Malachi 4:5–6

22. Intertestamental period — no direct verse; historical/thematic reference

23. Matthew 1:1–17; Luke 3:23–38

24. John 20:30–31 (thematic)

25. John 1:14 (thematic)

26. Mark 1:35; Luke 5:16

27. Hebrews 11 (thematic, overlaps with n.12)

28. Matthew 23:27–28

29. Acts 1:8; 2 Corinthians 11:23–28

30. Ephesians 5:22–6:4; Colossians 3:18–21

31. Hebrews 4:14–16

32. Luke 24:44; Matthew 5:17

33. 3 John 1:4

34. Revelation 21:1

35. Revelation 20:10; 1 Corinthians 15:24–26

36. 1 Peter 1:24–25 (thematic)

37. James 1:21; Romans 12:2

38. John 14:13–14

One of painter Ron DiCianni’s greatest creations depicts a father kneeling in prayer beside the bed of his sleeping child. His son is peaceful, snuggled with his teddy bear. The father, on the other hand, looks like he’s been through the wringer. His sleeves are rolled up, he’s massaging his temples with one hand and resting his other hand gently on his son’s side. The window is propped open, allowing an evening breeze to cool the room and ruffle the curtains. A light, either the moon or a street light, brightens the window.

Linger on the painting for a few more seconds. Allow the deeper images to appear. The light streaming in the window is not the moon, but the brilliance of a battling angel. His wings are contracting to keep him in flight. His left hand blocks a punch inbound from a demon while his right locks onto the enemy’s other wrist.

DiCianni’s painting, Spiritual Warfare, reminds us that bedtime prayers are not a sweet ritual or a religious trick to calm children before bed. Praying over our children was the first line of defense. We stood between our children and the onslaught of the world, the flesh, and the devil.

We took that seriously. Bedtime prayers were sacred. Mealtime prayers were set apart. Some of us hosted family devotions and prayer. We certainly prayed at large occasions—graduations, surgeries, even the removal of tonsils and adenoids. We prayed over our children.

And we still do—or do we? Do we pray with the fervency we did when they were little? Do we pray as long? Do we pray for ourselves about our beloved strangers more than we pray for them?

What if we set apart time to pray for our beloved strangers now, the same way? What if we sat on or knelt beside the bed and returned to that posture on a regular basis?

What should we pray for them? Obviously, we pray for God’s will to be accomplished in their lives. And when the words don’t come, we can pray from Paul’s prayer for the church recorded in Colossians 1. We can pray for God’s protection over our beloved strangers—that he will send his angels to guard, to guide, to protect. Because the battle for their souls is not against flesh and blood. We can pray that they will return. That they will have the courage to face conversations with us. We can battle for ourselves as well—our own fits of anger, the logs in our own eyes.

We may not be able to share a cup of coffee with our beloved strangers, but the Holy Spirit can prompt them, remind them, convict them. We may not be able to welcome our estranged children into our arms, but the messengers of God may be able to circle them in love and nourish their souls. We may not be able to go for a walk or take a vacation with them, but the angels of God can go where we cannot. We certainly cannot see into the spirit realm—but God is at work. So never neglect to ask Him to protect your children.

At some point, we stopped praying with our children nightly. The oddness of adolescence pushed us away. Then, sleepovers, dates, concerts, and late-night study sessions. Besides, we reasoned, our children need their autonomy. We also wanted them to own their own faith experiences.

It is not too late to pray again.

And perhaps some of us have a privilege that others do not. Perhaps some can return to the same room in the same home, kneel beside the same bed, and beseech the God of all creation and time.

As I examined the painting for the first time in years, I had two thoughts that hadn’t occured to me in the early 1990s. The child is not the only one protected by the angel. The father and the home are, too. And if you look at the shape of the window, you’ll see the subtle shape of the cross.

Read: Colossians 1:3–14

Pray: Make the prayer of Paul for the church at Colossae your own. Pray through the passage.

Listen: “Surrounded (Fight My Battles)” by UPPERROOM and Eylssa Smith

Write: Pen a letter to your beloved stranger, but do not send it. Outline a time you know you were protected or comforted by God and His angels.

So What: Much of what we do to reunite with our beloved strangers doesn’t work. The one thing we can do that always works is pray.

See Ron DiCianni’s painting.

What happens when we share the hard stuff of life with our children? How do they respond? React? Retreat? Author, coach, and speaker Kirsten Samuel walks us through what she’s seeing in parents and children alike as she coaches families through betrayal recovery.

Click on the image below to listen or watch.

“Emotion propels us into the tragic recognition that we are not home. And if this is true of our most pleasurable moments, then isn’t it even more true of our painful memories and experiences? We will never fully enjoy what we were meant to experience until heaven.”

From Dan Allender and Tremper Longman’s insightful work on the Psalms and emotions, The Cry of the Soul.

How many times have we finished praying and wondered, “Is this the prayer that God will answer? Did I finally pray for His will? Did He hear me this time?”

Why do we so often forget Paul’s matter-of-fact statement:

Sure, there are some days we remember the back end of this verse, “the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” We get the groaning part, right?

Do we even remember the first phrase? “Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness.” Why do we omit the phrase that brings hope? The Spirit of God helps. Paul doesn’t say, “The Spirit of God will help” as if some time in the future. The words mean right now. In this moment. In our weakness.

We are not alone in planting our prayer ladder against the wrong wall. On July 3, 1863, the third day of the Battle of Gettysburg, Robert E. Lee marshaled 15,000 Confederate men into the Union lines at Cemetery Ridge. General George Pickett led 4,300 men in the now-famous Pickett’s Charge. But Union artillery tangled their lines, allowing the Union to flank the Confederates on three sides. More than 7,800 men died in three days. The Union had broken Lee’s drive into the North. The war had turned.

How many men—in Blue and Gray—had prayed for victory, for safety, for peace, or for an end to the war?

A sliver of an answer was found on the battlefield. Among the dead, a folded sheet of paper was found on the body of a Confederate soldier. History books will never list his name, but his insight into prayer endures like one of the monuments erected to commemorate the battles.

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve,
I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health, that I might do great things,
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.

I asked for riches, that I might be happy,
I was given poverty, that I might be wise.

I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men,
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life,
I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among all men, most richly blessed.

God is more concerned about the intent of our prayers than the content of them. The soldier called out to God when he could have complained or cursed. God saw the soldier’s heart and lavished surprising gifts on him.

Even Jesus prayed for the “wrong” things. In the Garden of Gethsemane, he asked, “O my Father, if it’s possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will” (Matthew 26:39 NKJV). The cup did not pass. Jesus was arrested, tried, wrongfully convicted, beaten, whipped, pierced by thorns, and executed according to Roman law. God was working out His ultimate plan to accomplish our salvation. And that included His glorious resurrection.

So, let us pray for our heart’s desire, but always do so with an attitude of, “nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.” God will take care of the rest. And perhaps someday, He will bring about a different type of resurrection in our lives and those of our beloved strangers.

Stay for A While:

• Read: Romans 8:18–30 and 2 Corinthians 12:7–10

• Pray: What have you considered praying for regarding you and your beloved stranger but have held back from doing so? Pray it out loud.

• Write: Journal about a prayer you’ve prayed without a response. How did praying that prayer change you?

• Listen: “Blessings” by Laura Story [Story behind the song]

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Pastor, author, and broadcaster Bob Lepine reminds us that when Pauls said, “And now I will show you the most excellent way,” he was about to rebuke us.

Please watch this honest, compassionate, and at times, fun conversation with Bob.

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Did you skip over the video to keep reading? That’s okay. Just be sure to go back and watch or listen to the entire thing. Below Bob’s bio are my favorite moments from our interview.

Quotes from the Podcast Episode
from Bob Lepine

On the Topic of Estrangement

I’m so glad that you are going deep and tackling this subject and helping parents. As I travel and have the opportunity to speak, this is the question that I get most often from people who are wanting marriage or family issues addressed. They’re telling me about the heartache of children, whether they’re estranged from those children or whether they’re just in a fractured relationship because the kids have gone in a different direction. culturally, theologically, politically, and it’s created a deep divide among parents. And so I know that the the need is great. I’m so glad you’re addressing it.

Anything minus love equals nothing.

C.S. Lewis’ Four Loves

We’re served well by C. S. Lewis, who years ago wrote the book The Four Loves and looked at these four words in the Greek that describe love. And often times in in the context of what we’re talking about, our focus is on storge. It’s that family bonding, that love that God has put in our hearts for those who we are connected to either through biology or through adoption. There is something unique about that kind of bond and that kind of relationship that is transcendent.

And then of course there’s philia, which is the the friendship love that is talked about. where David and Jonathan had a deep bonded love. It was like brotherly love. It was like storge, but it was it in in some ways that kind of philia love can can sometimes go deeper even than storge. But there’s a connectedness in storge that you just can’t find anywhere else. Of course there’s eros, which is romantic love or sexual love, and then agape, which is the love that that Jesus demonstrates for us, which is a sacrificial, self-emptying love that puts the needs of others ahead of our own needs and says, I will sacrifice for your good. That’s the kind of love that’s being talked about in First Corinthians thirteen, the prioritization of others ahead of yourself.

The Numbness of Estrangement

I was thinking when it when there’s an estranged relationship or when there’s a fractured relationship like you’re talking about, it’s a little like a part of your body has become numb, a part of you has become paralyzed, because your kids are a part of you. So in a fully functioning body and relationship, everything works. There are parts of your body that are functioning but you’re not thinking about at the moment. But if a part of your body is paralyzed, there’s just something that you have to learn how to adjust to the new normal and how to make life work with something that you know should be functioning.

Is it amputation or is it paralysis? It’s not amputation, because you don’t lose a child when you’re estranged from a child. But there is a paralyzed relationship and it doesn’t function the way it should, and you long for that to be restored because there’s a storge in your heart.

Love is What?

You could be in a room with a hundred people, and if you said, “I want you to fill in the blank: love is what?” And invite your audience to fill in the blank with whatever they want to fill in the blank with. I would guess that out of a hundred people you’d get zero, maybe one, who would say first thing, love is patient.

And yet that’s where the Apostle Paul starts on his list. And if you’ve got a King James (translation), you know that patient is just a word that we have prettied up from the original, which means love is long suffering. Love suffereth long. Now, who in their right mind thinks when I think of love, I think of suffering for a long time? But for parents of estranged kids? That’s perfect explanation, perfect illustration. Yeah.

On Boundaries

An adult child says, “Don’t call me.” That’s that’s a boundary. “Don’t text me.” That’s a boundary.

If you say, “Well, I’m gonna keep texting you,” what you’re saying instead is “I’m gonna ignore what you’re asking me to do.” And that’s gonna be problematic. They’re gonna block you more. They’re gonna do whatever they can so that you have to respect what they’re asking you to do.

So, I think we have to pull back and say, “Okay, how can I manifest my love for my estranged child? How can I be patient, persevere in love, respect what what they’re looking for, but still demonstrate that the love is there? How can I not become rude, not become angry, not become bitter, not become self-seeking, not insisting on your my way or keeping a record of wrongs?”

All of these things that are listed here in First Corinthians 13 are things we have to go through and say, “If I’m gonna demonstrate real love to my estranged child, I have to make sure that I’m not guilty of keeping a record of wrongs. I have to make sure that I’m not guilty of being rude or inconsiderate, those kinds of things.”

What “Keeping a Record of Wrongs” Actually Means

When we forgive one another, this is a part of what keeping not keeping a record of wrongs means. It means that we are going to either overlook an offense, pour grace on it. “It’s a man’s glory to overlook an offense” (Proverbs 19:11). “Love covers a multitude of sins” (1 Peter 4:8).

And so in some cases, these offenses of the past, we’re going to pour grace on those and we’re going to release them. We’re not going to bring them up again. We’re not going to—even for clarification purposes. We’re going to say, “Think of what God does with our sin?”

God says, “I have put your sin as far as the east is from the west” (Psalm 103:12). “I’ve put it behind my back where I can’t see it” (Isaiah 38:17). “I put it at the bottom of the sea where you can’t go get it” (Micah 7:19). The omniscient God says, “I will remember your sin no more” (Jeremiah 31:34) And so when we forgive a sin, we’re saying, “I’m not going to bring this up again.”

Now you you may say, “Well, there’s a need for clarification. There’s a need for confrontation or for healing.”

My definition of forgiveness is “giving up the right to punish another person.” We’re releasing that right. I have no right to punish you. But sometimes in rebuilding trust, which is different than forgiveness, for forgiveness can happen, but trust needs to be real rebuilt over a period of time. “I don’t hold the sin against you, but I don’t fully trust you because of past behavior,” right? So how do we rebuild trust? You rebuild trust with consistent behavior over time. And sometimes in the rebuilding of trust, you have to go in and you have to you have to talk about things from the past. So that’s got to be able to be talked about in a context where the person who has been forgiven understands. I don’t hold this against you anymore. I’m not bringing this up as a weapon, but keep in mind anytime you bring it up, you’re you’re touching an old scar, an old wound.

You’ve gotta approach those things carefully. You may have to ask permission. “I’d like to revisit this event from the past to try to bring some closure to it.” But you may that may be too raw for you. you tell me whether we can revisit that. It’s it’s getting that kind of permission to go there.

Can I Still Love My Child?

When you say, “I just don’t have it in me to love this child,” my my friend Dave Wilson always liked to say in the context of marriage, he would say, “If there’s a problem here (horizontal), there’s a problem here (vertical). So if there’s a problem in a horizontal relationship, you need to fix the vertical relationship. You need God to pour his love into you and then let his love be the outflow in your love to your child.

Have you watched or listened yet? What are you waiting for. Click on the link above and experience the full interview. You’ll be glad you did.

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Darkness is the absence of light.

The darkness of some days surprises us. Where did the light go? Memories of our beloved strangers, both good and bad, seem to lurch out of the shadows. Our hearts race. Tears press against our eyelids. At other times, we let the light fade. We dread, sometimes weeks in advance of a birthday or anniversary, because we know that day will be so dark it will suck us in like a black hole.

As humans, we are not created for darkness; we were knitted together in our mothers’ dark wombs to live, and move, and have our being in light. As children, many of us swore that monsters roamed our bedrooms and closets when our parents turned off the lights. A flickering nightlight—all of 4 watts producing about as much light as a birthday candle—kept their claws and teeth hidden. Even today, when the lights go out due to a storm, we bang our shins on furniture, racing for the emergency box of candles. We are made for light.

Darkness may be the absence of light, but it cannot defeat the light.

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Imagine a room with no windows. Dark. Disorienting. Someone strikes a match, and the entire room brightens. We blink our eyes out of instinct until our irises constrict to adjust to the light. One spark—one tiny flame—and darkness retreats.

Jesus is the Light. Some days, especially days when well-meaning friends ask us questions about our children or social media serves up pictures and memories, saying “Jesus is the Light” feels trite, perhaps even meaningless. If He’s so bright, why do we still feel surrounded by inky nothingness?

Jesus is the light anyway.

The apostle John loves the word picture of light. He mentions it 24 times in the gospel of John alone. Then in his first letter, John writes an amazing statement. Pastor and author Crawford Loritts translates the original Greek like this:

John is emphatic, insistent, and urgent. He’s taking us by our shoulders and boring holes in our eyes to wake us up to the fact that Jesus’s light is no mere match strike in a painfully black room. He is a supernova eradicating the darkness in every nook and cranny and under each speck of dust. His light is so bright that no shadow can exist in His presence. No shadow of turning. No shadow from our past, our circumstances, or fears.

Darkness cannot overcome light. On days when our estrangement blacks out our lives, may we choose to open our eyes for a painful split second until our eyes adjust to the presence of the glow of His grace and peace.

Maybe, just maybe, this moment we are in, this moment when our hearts are the darkest, is a foreboding of something else terrible. Maybe, just maybe, we are in that moment between when the lights go down in a theatre, and the first ray of light hits the stage. Maybe, just maybe, the Great Director will say the word and our world will fill with music, light, story, and hope. The curtain will rise, and His plans will take shape before our eyes. Let us wait expectantly to see what God has planned in the light.

Stay for A While:

• Read: John 1:4–9, 3:19–21, 5:35, 8:12, 9:5, 11:9, 12:35 & 36, and 12:46

• Pray: Find a favorite spot and settle in. Thank Jesus for being the Light of the World. Then carefully and slowly look around. Thank Him, item by item, no matter how small, for all of the things around you that light illuminates.

• Write: Remember on paper or pixels one of the darkest days of estrangement. Where were you? What did you feel? How did you react? What did others say? How did you get beyond it at that time?

• Listen: “In the Light” by Charlie Peacock

Pastor, author, and award-winning radio host Bob Lepine joins me for a discussion about how to love our adult children. Bob spent longer than a year studying a passage that is so familiar many of us dismiss it. However, he will bring the greater context of the passage to bear and help us see deep and resonating truth in 1 Corinthians 13. Here’s a sneak peek of our interview.

When the disciples heard Jesus ask for daily bread, they probably thought back on the familiar history of the Exodus; while the Israelites wandered through the wilderness, God miraculously met their physical needs with a daily shower of manna. Manna was wafer-like pieces of sweet bread that covered the ground every morning like fresh snow. Even though God gave them more than enough for each day, the extra couldn’t be saved.

A few weeks after Jesus taught his disciples how to pray, He performed another bread miracle: the feeding of 5,000 men plus wives and children in one day. There may have been more than 20,000 fed on that single day. Jesus miraculously transformed five small loaves and two fish into a smorgasbord for a crowd that would overflow a high school football stadium.

Did the disciples get confused about the dailiness of bread? Do we confuse the definition? Most scholars believe bread is a word picture for what we need—physically, intellectually, emotionally, relationally, and spiritually. The necessities. The must-haves.

During the Korean War, a general commissioned his staff to survey all of his commanding officers about their most acute needs. His staff visited with COs leading infantry units at the front, managing M*A*S*H units a few miles back, and supervising headquarters staff. The results startled the general. Those at the front lines asked for more ammunition, more bandages, and more soldiers. Those farthest away from the fighting asked for Coca-Cola and better movies. The general reminded everyone that they were fighting a war, not taking a vacation.

When we talk with friends at church, before the neighborhood HOA meeting, or interact with them online, conversations about kids feel odd. Other parents aren’t on the same front lines we are. In the same way, we may not understand what a parent of a medically fragile child faces; other parents don’t know the gaping vacuum of estrangement. And when other parents pray, sometimes it feels like they’re asking for more Coca-Cola and better movies.

It’s no coincidence that a few minutes after Jesus taught about bread in the model prayer, he coached his disciples on worry. He said, “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matthew 6:34 NASB, emphasis added). He kept going. “Look at the birds. They don’t plant, harvest, or gather the harvest into barns. Yet, your heavenly Father feeds them. Aren’t you worth more than they? Can any of you add a single hour to your life by worrying? And why worry about clothes? Notice how the flowers grow in the field. They never work or spin yarn for clothes. But I say that not even Solomon in all his majesty was dressed like one of these flowers.”

Sometimes we need to pray for minute-by-minute bread. Forget 24 hours’ worth. Even when we can get beyond the moment, Jesus’s reminder holds true. We should pray for what we need to make it through the night until the next sunrise. Then do it all over again.

When we doubt his provision and pray for daily bread with a skeptical heart, may we marvel at the majesty of the birds and the flowers and remember that He holds us together, too.

Stay for A While:

• Read: Matthew 6 and 14:13–36

• Write: Make a list of everything you need—emotionally, physically, spiritually—for today. Then highlight the essentials. Where is the bread in the list?

• Pray: Pray the Lord’s Prayer, but instead of praying “daily bread,” pray your highlighted list.

• Listen: “I Need You” by LeAnn Rimes

Matt Mason, Senior Pastor at The Church at Brook Hills, joins me for a live conversation about Jesus’s words to the Pharisees in Mark 7. We wrestle with:

• Hypocrisy: what does it really mean?

• How to wrestle with grief

• Words that comfort us

• How to examine our hearts

Watch Now

Pray with me tonight for hope.

Father God, we come to You tonight knowing that You are hope. You embody hope. The purpose of the Old Testament was to look forward to the hope of a Savior, of a Deliverer.

And the hope of the Advent of Christ was that the hope had arrived.

And the hope that we have now is that Christ has lived His sinless life, led a ministry that brought about healing and wholeness to others. He talked about the Kingdom of God that would come, where we look forward and hope to the new heaven and new earth. In the meantime, here in the middle, while we wait, we long for our hearts to wait expectantly, to wait full of hope for what may come. And what You may do in the lives of our beloved strangers and in our lives. So we cling to hope and “hope does not disappoint” as You tell us. We cling to hope because what we are clinging to is hope with a capital H, clinging to You.

Thank you, Lord, for giving us hope, filling our hearts with hope. And even when it's hard to hope, we have a hope to hope.

We love You, Lord.

We pray that tonight You would help us to cast our cares upon You and cling to that hope.

We pray in Jesus's name.

Amen.

Good night, fellow parents. We'll see you here in this channel another time.

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In the middle of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus offers a word picture that convicts me daily. Does it convict you?

Jesus is going for contrast. A grain of sand versus Stone Mountain, Georgia. A drop of water versus the Pacific Ocean. Literally, a small particle that flew off of a dried reed versus a weight-bearing beam that holds up a building.

We must deal with the gargantuan obstacle in our lives before we can deal with the pebble in the shoe of our beloved strangers. And it may take so long and so much energy, that we can never address the pebble.

But do we have this attitude?

Which do we know more? The list of complaints our estranged children have about us or our list of reasons they should’ve stayed connected?

Which do we say more? “But I...” or “How do I make amends?”

Which do we do more? Complain, plot our next attempt at communication, or pray for them?

Which do we believe more? “She needs help” or “I need help”?

As humans, we don’t know how we sound when we speak because, when we do, the bones in our heads and our sinuses vibrate and add to the sound we hear. Recordings just capture the sound expelled from our mouths.

So guess what? In a spiritual sense, when we listen to our “no contact” kids (or more likely replay what has been said in the past), we only hear a portion.

We don’t see, hear, read, or feel all of the “vibrations” through their minds and souls. We are left with just their words. We don’t know their conversations with others, anguish scrawled in their journals, rehearsals for conversations not started, messages deleted and not sent, prayers they struggled to pray, and more. And that’s okay. That’s speck stuff.

We’ve got to deal with the log. We must heed Jesus’s words. We must first—and only—deal with the redwood tree sticking out of our faces.

On the days I want to scream, “But I” the loudest—and then fill in the blank with my résumé of outstanding parenting and humanity—I pull myself back to a printed list on a yellowed sheet of paper tucked in a sun-wrinkled page protector. In couplets of conviction, Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth compares and contrasts pride and brokenness. To be transparent, I used to review this list as a scorecard. I’d mentally tally how many of the brokenness phrases described me versus the prideful ones. If I was more broken than prideful, I’d smile and feel like a good guy. If the score was reversed, I would chalk it up to having a bad day. Years later, I began to see the comparisons for what they are: I am proud. Period. The description of brokenness is my heart’s cry to ask God, in His mercy, to pour contempt on all my pride.

Everything in our pain shouts for us to rush to our beloved strangers and break down the barriers between us. The barriers will only disappear when we, instead, work daily on ourselves and move toward brokenness.

Stay for A While

• Read—Matthew 7:1–12, Luke 6:27–43

• Pray—Pray through the list of proud people versus broken people and ask God to move you toward brokenness in every aspect. [Listen to Mrs. Wolgemuth’s original 1995 message here.]

• Write—Pretend that the journalist, radio talk show host, or pastor you trust the most is going to interview you. What 10-20 questions should he or she ask that would get to every ring, flake of bark, and drop of sap in the log in your eye?

• Listen—The Heart of the Matter, Don Henley

• So What?—We can’t change our beloved strangers. We can only cooperate with God as He refines us, shapes us, and sanctifies us.

Are we looking for spiritual distinction or just to be obedient?

Ink Stains:

The Numbers

• 29 pieces of writing complete — though only one of those was finished this week.

A Familiar Irony

My literary agent has been pushing me to do the audience-building thing — build the platform, feed the newsletter, earn a bigger audience. Here’s the irony: she once wrote a children’s book for adults that captures, with uncomfortable reality, every distraction writers battle when they’re actually trying to write.

I lived it this week. When I finally had time to sit down and write, I completed exactly one devotional.

What did I do instead? I learned Content360, the social media scheduling software I bought almost a year ago and let collect dust. I also poured hours into the website. It’s live now — not 100%, but close. What’s left? SEO, and GEO — making sure AI systems can find and understand the site, too.

None of that is writing. All of it, apparently, still needs to get done.

What Mattered More

The most significant thing that happened this week had almost nothing to do with practical progress.

I watched a video from Alex Kendrick, the creative force behind movies like Facing the Giants and War Room, telling behind-the-scenes stories at a conference hosted by Answers in Genesis. His movies get dismissed by some as simplistic, overly preachy. I’ve never agreed. They’ve spoken to my life and what I believe more effectively than most things I’ve watched. I’m a fan, unapologetically.

Listening to him talk, I got convicted about how I’ve been praying over this book.

I will never forget hearing Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth say that when women came to her asking how to become a published writer, or start a radio program, or become a public speaker, she gave them the same answer every time, “You worry about the depth of your ministry. Let God worry about the breadth of it.” I didn’t just hear Nancy say it — I heard my mentor, Bob Lepine, quote her exact words to people who asked him the same question.

So I’m well aware this isn’t a simple writing project. It’s meant to be a balm—an encouragement—and I take that seriously. I have a team of people praying with me over this book. But watching Alex’s talk, I realized I’ve been praying more out of effort than trust.

Trust isn’t something we can gin up or manufacture. It’s something we cast ourselves into. I’ve had to learn to trust God with my kids. Now I’m learning to trust Him with this book, too.

So whatever you’re facing — especially with your own beloved strangers — I’d challenge you to watch that video and see what it does to the way you pray.

Silence. I never expected silence.

One day, my son texted me from Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge. His smile gleamed brighter than sunlight flashing off the windows of the Millennium Falcon. The next day, my son joined my middle daughter in the staggering and growing number of adult children who have gone “no contact.” My silence doubled overnight.

Karl Pillemer, founder of Cornell University’s Family Estrangement & Reconciliation Project, calls estrangement a hidden epidemic. The Project’s 10-year study reports that 10% of U.S. parents are estranged from a child and 27% of U.S. adults have cut off contact with family members. A YouGov survey says that 16% of U.S. adults are estranged from a parent.

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But those numbers really don’t matter to you and me, do they?

I don’t know about your journey, but as I’ve sought answers, help, recommendations, and more, I have only found three things. First, I found parents bleeding all over the internet and receiving poor advice and even poorer perspective. Their pain jumped off the screen. Secondly, I saw clinical psychologists trying to offer explanations and perspective. Many were helpful. Others left me hungry. (And there were a few self-proclaimed experts pitching their latest for pay solution.) Thirdly, I heard a lot of silence. Very few from a Christ-centered worldview was offering hope or counsel.

I decided to speak up.

I am no expert. I am not a theologian or therapist. I don’t have answers to our questions or methodologies for reconciliation. But I am a fellow traveler on the road learning to trust God in the vacuum caused by the distance. And the silence. I write to provide a first aid kit for the soul to treat the cuts, bruises, and broken hearts we experience every day.

My forthcoming book, Beloved Strangers: Devotions and Prayers for Estranged Parents, is built on the three lessons that God has driven deep into my life since 2014.

Three Lessons God is Teaching Me

1. God loves our children infinitely more than we can imagine, and He loves us, too.

2. In His sovereignty, God takes our children on a journey through His process. He has a plan, even though we can’t see it. And it might not be accomplished while we are still on the earth.

3. Despite “no contact,” we never stop being their parents.

My friends who are also estranged feel like I do: we need regular doses of biblical hope, real-life illustrations, and expressions of empathy. My writing here on Substack, and eventually the devotional, offer a kind hand on the shoulder, reminders of God’s presence in the process, Scripture anchors, and prompts for prayer.

Jesus is close to the brokenhearted parent. He never goes “no contact.”

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What you’ll find here every Friday morning:

1. A devotional you can read in under three minutes.

2. A passage of Scripture to sit with a little longer.

3. A prompt to write — a journal entry, or a letter to our beloved strangers that we will never send.

4. A prayer to focus our hearts on a God who is not silent, even when our children are.

5. A song to carry us the rest of the day.

6. A reminder that answers “So what?” about our journey.

From time to time, I’ll also share interviews with leaders and others who can help us and a look inside the process of writing.

Further up and further in.

Mark

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A note: I won’t be talking about my own beloved strangers, telling our story, or naming them. I haven’t been given that permission, and I want to honor them. Just know every word here comes out of the same waiting you’re in.

How far away from your beloved stranger do you feel?

You and I shouldn’t rush to an answer to this question. The pain of distance is real. Pain, when hidden, is often crammed into a closet like a decade’s worth of out-of-style clothing, sports equipment, and holiday decorations that will explode forth and crush us if we turn the doorknob even a quarter. If the pain is visible, it is like an open sore, and no matter how much we perform wound care, it still seeps and aches.

Some days, we feel a continent away from our beloved strangers.

How far away from God do you feel?

In the same way, we should take a beat before we answer. This pain wears many costumes. Which of these sounds familiar? Abandoned. Left for dead. Punished. Forgotten. Cast aside. In this pain of distance, our hearts can even turn to unbelief. We may dress up our lives in faith, but at our core, we don’t—or can’t—believe right now.

Some days, we feel galaxies apart from God.

In this moment, we can do little to change our distance from our children. Even if we tried, despite what some internet-crowned experts tout, our efforts would probably drive them further away.

However, in this moment, we can speak to our hearts and reject the second question altogether. God is close. So close, in fact, He can reach out and touch our faces.

In 1 Samuel 20–21, David had been anointed King but hadn’t ascended to the throne. He is serving in Saul’s court, but Saul is angry, suspicious, and plotting against him. David’s deep friendship with Jonathan saves his life. David escapes, faces hunger, then runs right into his old nemeses, the Philistines. To get away, he has to act like a sweaty-toothed madman drooling all over his beard. (Much like how we feel when some people look at us and wonder what caused the rift between us and our children.)

At some point after this incident, perhaps even in the cave of Adullam, David felt he had enough perspective to pull out his lyre and spin a tune: Psalm 56. He starts out recounting how his enemies attacked him, injured him, and stirred up strife. He takes a deep breath and then writes these words:

We are the generation of camcorders, scrapbooking, and shoeboxes full of memories. We need only walk a few steps to pull photo albums from the bookcase, or a few steps farther to lower a box from a closet shelf. We can also pick up our magical rectangles, tap a few times, and see our beloved stranger’s life glow before our eyes. We remember. We ache. In essence, we keep count.

But oh so much more does God. How much more precious is what God does with us? How much more intimate is His collection? Not a tear has pooled in our eyes, carved caverns down our faces, been wiped away, fallen to our clothes, or absorbed by our pillows that He hasn’t captured. And not only the tears, but the stories behind them. The tears are in a bottle, but the reasons we cried are written in His book.

Yes, we are closer to our memories than we are to our beloved strangers, but God is not distant. He has not forgotten us. He wraps us in His arms. He remembers every moment of grief.

May we, like David reflecting on the tenderness of God, say, “In God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can man do to me?” Even as we long for the opportunity to make new memories, take new pictures, capture new video, and continue the story, may our voices echo David’s closing words, “For you have delivered my soul from death, yes, my feet from falling, that I may walk before God in the light of life.”

Stay for Awhile

• Read: 1 Samuel 20:1–22:5 and Psalm 56.

• Pray: Reflect on the last time you cried (or emoted strongly in other ways) about your beloved stranger. Thank God for caring about each moment, each tear, and each feeling.

• Write: Craft your own psalm. Write to the Lord how you feel you have been treated by your beloved stranger, but after each phrase, add David’s Psalm 56 refrain, “In God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?”

• Listen: “I Cry” by Russ Taff

Did You Know Candle Drippings Have a Name?

For centuries, candle makers and poets have called the dripping wax that runs down the side of a burning candle “tears.” Candles “weep” in poems from writers as different and separated by time as John Donne and Sylvia Plath.

In the same way that those wax drippings do not diminish a candle but make it more interesting and beautiful, neither do our tears diminish us.

Ink Stains

The Numbers

• 28 pieces of writing complete.

• Consistent posting and subscriber growth

Thoughts on Creating

Creating content and art for social posts and Substack can take away attention and blood flow from writing the devotional. While I try to write for the devotional in ways that can be used on Substack, I am more guided by how I want to walk with others through these experiences.

I’m not an automaton either. I feel, wonder, think, and struggle, too.

Father’s Day comes and goes every year. Storm clouds precede it. Thunder follows it. And the day of is partly cloudy with a chance of tears. This year, I needed some inspiration so I watched “Field of Dreams” again. As the credits rolled, I stuck a pen in my vein and bled out the review I posted.

Late on Sunday night/Father’s Day, God tapped me on the shoulder to remind me of something. At a low point on Friday, I had asked God to show me that He cares.

I totally missed the delivery of his love letter. it arrived Saturday night wrapped up in the form of a 6-foot-5 gregarious man of God. Yet, I didn’t realize it until my head hit the pillow Sunday night.

Heather and I met Steve, and his lovely wife Karen, two years ago. We were all attending a fundraiser for a non-profit that has supported my son Zion’s athletic pursuits. Milling around making small talk, several facts emerged. Steve and I are both adopted. We lived just a few miles from each other. And then, kapow. Steve had been recruited by my father to play basketball at DeKalb College.

That conversation, of course, led to many more. Steve is a strong Christ follower. His daughter lives a few doors down from us in our neighborhood. We have mutual friends and acquaintances. And so much more.

The gift God gave me was a conversation with Steve on the eve of Father’s Day 2026 when we attended that same fundraiser. I realized that Steve is one of the very few people alive today who knew my dad and are involved in my life today. What a gift.

A Practical Marketing Lesson

Batching production will move you forward quickly and greatly reduce your day-to-day stress.

The people behind once-a-month cooking batch meal prep into two days of planning, shopping, chopping, and cooking.

If you dispense your medicines into a weekly pill-minder, you are batching.

If you wrap all your Christmas gift in one flurry of ribbons and tape, you are batching.

In the same way, marketers, when they get to the practical execution level, find batching to be very effective and time-saving.

So, as I’m writing this, I’m preparing to batch. I’ve prepared several weeks of newsletters and posts. So, next I will batch. I will edit, design art, and program all of the posts and newsletters. I like batching like this because it gives me the opportunity to edit everything again.

Note: The pronoun her is used throughout this prayer. If you are praying through a son’s birthday, substitute his name, his, and him throughout. Where appropriate, substitute your experiences for those expressed here. Feel free to substitute “we” and “us” as well if you are able to pray this with your spouse today.

Eternal God,

You are infinite, eternal, and unchangeable.

You reign over all, separate from time and space.

Be with me here today where gravity anchors my body to the earth and my memories lock me to my beloved stranger who celebrates a birthday today.

Today feels like it will last a thousand years. Will You please be with me through every moment and memory?

Birthdays are always about the anticipation, looking forward to the big day. Guide me to anticipate what You are doing in her life and to wait expectantly to witness Your will coming to fruition.

I feel anger that I cannot be with her today to celebrate. I remember the parties I planned and hosted. Help me to be grateful for those moments and pray for her joy today.

I mourn what I’ve lost—the conversations and the closeness. Lead me to thank You for all those precious moments, rather than whine about what’s missing.

I remember the presents, wrapped with care, that she opened with joy. Today, I want to remember that she is a gift from You.

I won’t fill a bag of discarded paper, tape, and bows. Will You continue to show me how to get rid of all of my negative thoughts and behaviors? May I bring my filthy rags to You in repentance?

Be with me as I look at the notches in the door frame that marked her growth from toddler to teen. Comfort me as I hear the echoes of her conversations with friends, laughter, singing, and dancing feet. Remind me that You began a good work in her and that You will be faithful to complete it.

I worship You, Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I worship You, the creator of time.

Here, there will be no cake decorated with her passions and for her delight. Will You please grant to us our daily bread and help me look to You to uphold her and me?

No wisps of smoke will rise from blown-out birthday candles. I long to rest in You, especially today, knowing that my life is just a vapor, appearing for a little while.

You are the same today, yesterday, and forever. Where I am stuck today, will You lift my chin, dry my eyes, and point me to what is eternal? When I see photographs of past birthdays, will You direct my gaze to Your plan for her?

In this moment, I pray for her. Will You grant her joy today? Surround her with those who love her, remind her that there is only one like her in the entire universe, lead her to give You thanks for breathing life into her, and bring her peace. Energize her with plans for her future and prompt her to thank You for all You’ve provided. Wrap Your arms of love around her today.

And since I can’t hug her today myself, will You embrace me in Your love and care today, too?

You are the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God. To You be honor and glory forever and ever.

Amen

Birthday candles first appear in history in 1746, when a man hosted a lavish birthday for himself. Count Ludwig von Zinzendorf commissioned a large cake with one candle for every year of his life.

Perhaps he was invoking Kinderfest, a children’s birthday celebration, and the superstition that children were vulnerable to evil spirits, especially on their birthdays, and needed candles to ward them off.

Unlike today, where candles only burn for a few seconds lest the wax ruin the icing of the cake, the tradition in Germany grew over time to present the cake at the beginning of the day. The candles burned all day until the evening meal and celebration. This Kinderfest also gave us the extra candle, the one to grow on. They said the candle represented “the light of life.”

German immigrants brought the tradition to America before the close of the 18th century, but it wasn’t adopted in the New World until the late 1800s.

Even with all her flaws, foibles, and her citizens forgetting her history, I love America.

This Independence Day, here are five pieces of media I recommend we dive into to remember why this nation is worth fighting for.

I know this is an extra article this week, but once I started contemplating the list, it flowed out of me.

The audiobook version of 1776 by David McCullough

Woven into the events of the actual calendar year, McCullough provides rich details and perspectives on the fight, how hard the fight was, and most importantly, why we fought in the first place. There is no whitewashing of ideas or people; however, matters are framed in their proper context, historically and philosophically.

McCullough reads his own works and is a delightful and powerful narrator. By hearing the author deliver his own work, we gain so much understanding of how he emphasizes one idea or another. (Note: the YouTube video is the full audiobook, but the fidelity is low.)

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewart teamed up many years before It’s a Wonderful Life. (This movie is even more powerful if you watch IaWL afterward knowing that Stewart and Capra—and our nation—endured World War II between the movies.) What would happen if someone who loved the U.S., wasn’t jaded by the crushing cogs of grift and favors of Washington politics, and truly wanted to govern became a Senator?

If possible, try to imagine what it would’ve been like for the average American to go see this movie in the neighborhood theatre. In 1939, the effects of the Depression still weighed us down. Frequent travel was not a part of the American experience. We weren’t a car culture yet. Flying was still for the elite. Most didn’t leave their counties let alone their states. Movie goers might have seen color photographs in magazines, but newspaper reviews of the movie reported gasps from audience members when Jefferson Smith sees the monuments of Washington, D.C. thus allowing many Americans to see them for the first time, too.

The Patriot

The movie has its problems, but there are too many scenes in it that illustrate powerful concepts like state’s rights, honor, deference, diplomacy, and freedom. Two scenes will always stand out to me. First, while Benjamin Martin (Mel Gibson) mourns his son’s brutal death at the hands of a British officer without honor, he finds an American flag in his son’s effects. The conversations about and the handling of the actual flag stir my soul. Secondly, throughout the film, we see a the tension between a slave and a soldier under Martin. This story arc provides a stark illustration of one of the aspects of the issue we should wrestle with instead of throwing soundbites at each other.

If for no other reason, watch the movie to revel in John Williams’ stirring score which is sure to help you stand taller. Your right hand will naturally move to your heart.

The opening few minutes of Season 1, Episode 1 of The Newsroom

Aaron Sorkin ins one of my favorite writers of all time even though we hold differing points of view about many political issues. No matter where you reside on the political spectrum, this scene, which sets up the incredible series, will make you angry and stir your pride in our nation. And hopefully, it will cause you to want to work harder, be a part of the process, know your representatives, show up at meetings, and make your voice known.

Clips of the scene have made the rounds online for years since the show’s release (like this one), but they miss the context of McAvoy’s answer. If you can, watch on HBO Max to see the very first words through 8:05.

(And if you have a place in your heart for journalism and television news, watch the opening credits sequence, too. It will move you.)

A Capitol Fourth

I will continue to give money to PBS as long as they produce the Memorial Day concert and A Capitol Fourth every year. The music, stories, sights, and crowd thrill me. I watch recordings of A Capitol Fourth if I leave the house for fireworks. It means that much every year.

For America’s 250th, they are pulling out all the stops with the band Chicago, Kool & the Gang, Patti LaBelle, Trace Adkins, Alan Jackson, Gary Sinese, and so many more.

Trailer | Live Stream

Miracle

The greatest moment in American sports history is beautifully set against the reality of the Cold War, the hostage crisis, insane gas prices, and America’s general malaise following the Vietnam War.

At one point, the movie makers play an extended clip from one of President Jimmy Carter’s speeches. If you only know the caricature of the man, you may leave your viewing with a greater understanding of how our nation elected him.

Watch carefully for every mention of the crowd, or how America responds, or the support for the team. And marvel at Al Michaels’ call of the game. Much was recreated for the movie since it shortened game action, but the audio wizards cleaned up the actual “Do You Believe in Miracles?” portion because nothing moves like how he said it in the moment.

Band of Brothers

The book is magnificent. The HBO series is transcendent. Both stand equally well. The book contains detail and history, paints the 1940s so well, and puts all of the battles in a greater context of World War II. The HBO series allows you to hear the bullets, planes, and aircraft, feel the Georgia heat and the frigid cold of the Ardennes, and experience jumping out of a plane on fire.

Invest the time to experience the entire book or series.

Before Independence Day, however, watch Episode 9, Why We Fight.

America: You’re Too Young to Die

This is must-watch viewing for the Semiquincentennial. President Ronald Reagan has a few remarks in this excellently produced history lesson from 1985. I have watched this many times over the years. I laugh every time at Hal Smith’s portrayal of Benjamin Franklin (my favorite). I tear up every time with the intent of the special.

This telecast is part history lesson, part patriotic display, and part call to greater things. Don’t dismiss the 1980s production and perspective on issues and don’t wave your hand over the points it makes. Take in the heart of what they were attempting to accomplish.

If you’re old enough, where were you during the bicentennial celebration in 1976?

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Guess where I was?

My dad concocted a brilliant plan. We would take a family vacation west from Georgia to California since the rest of the U.S. would be headed up the eastern seaboard to visit all of the historical markers from our fight for independence.

Halfway between the purple mountain’s majesty and the amber waves of grain, he laughed as he piloted our brand new 1976 Ford Granada Ghia (light blue with a white quarter vinyl roof, the first car we ever owned with air conditioning, I might add). He laughed because it felt like everyone in the entire country had the same idea. We wore out a cassette of “Elvis Country” along Route 66.

While my mom shopped, I guess, Dad and I drank sarsaparilla, conducted a slow-motion gun fight at the OK Corral, inspired the writers of National Lampoon’s Vacation with our three-minute visit to the rim of the Grand Canyon, mourned the loss of Elvis when we pulled into a city where he was scheduled to perform, stayed too long in Lake Havasu City, and marveled at Chavez Ravine (please read this article about my dad and baseball). I won five dollars worth of nickels in the lobby of our hotel in Las Vegas, causing a massive uproar from the hotel manager and security since a seven-year-old played a slot machine.

Despite heading west, an enduring love of our country was kindled that summer, fanned into flame by my time as a Boy Scout. Cord wood was added to the flame by my dad’s officer’s commission into the Army, which hung on the wall of our home, and my time sitting on the bench for the DeKalb Community College Central Campus Patriots basketball team, whose minuteman painted at center court was far superior to the one painted on the side of a New England football helmet.

Years after earning my Eagle Scout, my son—one of my beloved strangers—spent some time earning merit badges before finding his purpose as a Tae Kwon Do athlete. On one of the weekend campouts, the leaders asked me to help perform a flag retirement ceremony during the campfire that night.

When flags are worn out, faded, frayed, or otherwise in poor shape, the U.S. Flag Code §8(k) says, “The flag, when it is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by burning.”

You read that correctly. Burning. Most often, the flag is cut into its component pieces—the blue field of stars, seven red stripes, and six white stripes—then placed in a roaring hot fire during a patriotic reading, singing of “The National Anthem,” or recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.

That’s a different burning than the kind we see in protest.

It was that juxtaposition that got me thinking. What would an American Flag say before being retired in the flames?

So here, on the front porch of our Semiquincentennial, I offer these observations written as the script for a flag retirement ceremony.

Note: It is customary during these ceremonies to pause and ask those who served in our armed forces to stand, allowing others in attendance to honor their service and the sacrifice of their brothers in arms. That would occur at the point where the branches are named.

If an American flag could speak to us tonight, what might she say?

“I am an American flag. I am mere cloth, thread, and grommet. But I also have a soul. It is the American Spirit that burns inside of you.

“I am red, and white, and blue. But I am also the colors of our country—the gold fields of wheat, the gray ribbons of highway, the green rolling hills and timberlines, and—yes—the purple mountain’s majesty.

“My sisters and I have flown for longer than 200 years. We have ridden on horseback during cavalry campaigns. We have been raised under gunfire on mountains in the Pacific. We have blanketed coffins vouchsafing the dignity of those that died protecting your freedom. We have whipped atop masts on aircraft carriers. We have mourned at half-mast. We have fluttered in the breeze on lonely cemetery hilltops. We have adorned the shoulders of scouts and soldiers, athletes and airmen. No matter where, we’ve flown under a sky created by Almighty God.

“I have many names. Old Glory. The stars and bars. Freedom’s flag. The stars and stripes. Democracy’s standard. The Star-Spangled Banner. No matter what you call me, I am the flag of the United States of America.

“Soon, I will be retired in the flames before me. A sister flag will take my place, waving above a building or in front of a home. When you see her there, will you think of me? Will you remember our time together?

“Some believe that flags shouldn’t be burned, except in protest. I do burn tonight in protest—protest against all dictators and totalitarians who squeeze dignity and freedom from their people. I burn in protest against Marxism, Fascism, and Communism! I burn in protest against cowardly terrorists. I burn in protest against all those who hate freedom.

“So stand up airmen, soldiers, sailors, and marines! Remember how you served—here or over there—Coast Guardsman, National Guardsman, Merchant Marine, and Space Force Guardians.

And you! Citizen! Rise to your feet now as well in respect for the freedoms won by those who served this great land.

“I AM THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. As I burn, may freedom’s light rekindle in you.”

Happy Independence Day. Happy Semiquincentennial.

Cynics love to drag out an old chestnut of a riddle to trip up Christ followers. They ask, “If God is all-powerful, can He make a rock so large that even He can’t move it?”

So what’s the answer? And how does the answer help us with our relationship with our beloved strangers?

Here we go: There are things God can’t do. He can’t do anything against His nature. Jesus cannot allow someone who is not born again into the kingdom of God. (Take a look at Jesus’s dead-of-night conversation with Nicodemus in John 3.) That also means He can’t prevent a child whom He loves and rescued from his or her sin from entering His eternal presence.

That’s great and everything, we think, but then why does God allow something that seems against His nature: our separation from our children? Why would that be in His will? If we were reunited, wouldn’t that bring God glory and honor?

David and Saul

King Saul and his army of thousands hunted David with more fervor and cunning than Gerard’s hard target search through every henhouse, outhouse, and doghouse for Richard Kimble. The future king hid in brush, behind rocks, in caves, and dodged soldiers who came within a spear’s length. Does that sound like God working within His own nature? For months, the Lord preserved David. The once and future shepherd/harpist even composed Psalm 31 to celebrate God’s protection and safety.

Like Saul, even though our life feels impossible, as if we’re under attack and the storms will never relent, we can go to God in prayer for His protection and comfort. There is a reason for the whirlwind that we may know on earth or may only find out in the new heaven and new earth.

Mary and Martha

Mary and Martha had lost their patience. They must have grown tired asking, “Where is Jesus?” Their brother was breaths away from his final one, and Jesus was dawdling in the next town over. Didn’t He care? Wasn’t Lazarus His friend?

Then Lazarus died. They buried him. Still no Jesus.

How does this reflect the nature of God?

When Jesus neared the home four days after Lazarus breathed his last, Martha met him on the road, and the two wept together. How many days had they begged Jesus to come? How many messengers had they sent to the Rabbi?

In just a matter of minutes, Lazarus was alive and in desperate need of some scissors.

Jesus comforted Martha with His tears even though He knew He would raise Lazarus before Martha’s nose stopped being red.

When our grief and sorrow are at their worst, we can go to God in prayer because He will weep with us. And He will bring about a resurrection in His time and according to His will, even if it isn’t in ours.

Moses and Joshua

Moses passed the mantle of leadership to Joshua to lead Israel into the Promised Land. But there were giants in them there hills. The ragtag bunch of former Egyptian slaves was outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and outplanned. How was this in God’s nature?

Could God do the impossible again? Five times—five times—God told Joshua to be strong and courageous. God prepared him for challenges and difficulties. Then God divided the Jordan River. A second parting. A second crossing.

We have impossible staring us in the face every day, but we can look to God Almighty and His timing for His hand. (And if He chooses to part the frozen tundra between our children and ourselves, we will look at it and declare it miraculous.)

Read: Psalm 31. Read it slowly and aloud. Don’t do it as a task. Read it as an act of worship. Take your time, especially through verses nine through 13. (Consider memorizing this Psalm in the Bible translation of your choosing.)

Pray: Psalm 31:1–5

Write: Describe in pixels, pencil, or pen what seems impossible to you about your relationship with your beloved stranger? Then describe what you understand to be impossible from your child/children’s side. Don’t forget the “why” from both perspectives.

Listen: “Blessed Be Your Name” by Matt Redman

• A Prayer for Estranged Fathers to Pray on Father’s Day… and Every Day

• Thoughts About Father’s Day

• A Reflection on My Own Dad… and Baseball

A Prayer for Estranged Fathers to Pray on Father’s Day… and Every Day

In the movie Finding Forrester, Pulitzer Prize-winner William Forrester (Sean Connery) coaches Jamal (Rob Brown) on how to transform his promising writing from, um, constipated to soul-lifting. In one scene, Jamal struggles to begin a writing assignment for school. Forrester gives him an article he had written decades before. He said, “Start typing that. Sometimes the simple rhythm of typing gets us from page one to page two, and when you begin to feel your own words, start typing them.”

As a young Christian in my teens, I was arrogant enough to believe that all prayer had to be extemporaneous and original. Over the years, I’ve come to love prayers like those from The Valley of Vision, the outstanding series Every Moment Holy, and even The Book of Common Prayer.

I am including, as the tentative title promises, in my forthcoming devotional, Beloved Strangers: Devotionals and Prayers for Estranged Christian Parents, several written prayers in the hope that they will be for you what Forrester’s words were for Jamal: a starting place. Perhaps, the simple rhythm of praying will get you from idea one to idea two, and you’ll feel your own words begin to flow.

Oh Heavenly Father,

You are the compassionate one, my Rock, and my Savior.

You don’t change like shifting shadows, and every good and perfect gift comes down from You, oh Father of Light.

Today is Father’s Day. I feel anxiety and anger toward my estranged child and I feel hurt that we won’t be connected today. I stand here connected in a long chain of imperfect fathers from Adam, Noah, and Abraham through my grandfather and father.

I feel helpless to say or do the right thing for my children. I want to lift my eyes to the heavens and see my help coming from You, the Maker of heaven and earth, but my head is heavy with worry and shame.

I feel hopeless that anything will ever change between us. I feel hopeless that my beloved stranger will contact me today. Hope seems microscopic in this moment. I don’t know if it is the overwhelming size of a star just far away in another galaxy, or a speck of dust so small I can’t possibly hold it between two fingers. So instead, will You be my hope, Abba, Father?

In this moment, I kneel before You, Father, the One from whom every family in heaven and on earth receives its name. Will You strengthen my faith with power out of Your glorious riches? Will You allow Your beloved Son to dwell in my heart through faith?

Please root and establish the children You entrusted to me in Your love. Help them—and me—grasp how wide and long and high and deep is Your everlasting love.

Today is Father’s Day. So, Heavenly Father, Happy Father’s Day.

Amen

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Thoughts About Father’s Day

I recently asked some dads who are currently estranged from one or more of their children about their best and worst Father’s Days. Here are a few of their replies.

My best Father’s Day was when all three of my sons took me golfing. We did that a few times over the years. My worst Father’s Day was two years ago. My oldest son didn’t even call or text “Happy Father’s Day.” I called him and left him a message telling him “Happy Father’s Day.” He did the same thing last year.

—M.C.

Worst Father’s Day was 2020. That was the first Father’s Day spent after my wife died, and my daughter had walked away at the same time.

—R.B.

My best Father’s Day was my daughter’s soccer tournament on my birthday. My daughter loved soccer. I often refereed, so it was our thing. Her team made it to the penalty kicks. She was the last kicker. I was so nervous for her, but she handled it like a pro. High up in the corner to win the tournament and get first place for her team. I lost my s**t from the sidelines. I was so happy for her. The worst was the Father’s Day after she went no contact. It was the first holiday coming up after she told us. I tried to keep busy most of the day. I barbecued. I tried to have a smile on my face. But I kept looking at my phone, hoping for a phone call, a FaceTime, a text, anything. I haven’t heard from her since.

—S.J.

How about you?
What was your best or worst Father’s Day?

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A Reflection on My Own Dad… and Baseball

My dad was my hero, and I’ve missed him every single day of the 23 years since he got called up to “The Show” by God Himself. I wrote this reflection in 2003, just a few weeks before he passed away.

The Greatest Season of All

Baseball is a gentleman’s game played in bursts of heart-stopping excitement followed by the scribbling of sharpened pencils in thick ledgers. Or at least it used to be. The heart still stops, but some not-so-gentle men swing fists or corked bats. And high-resolution video cameras, computer keyboards, and radar guns have replaced the sharpened pencil. I guess there are still some gentlemen who play the game—a few wide-eyed rookies making it to the “Show” and a few elder statesmen patrolling the green grass of the outfield. And there is still one man who marks his ledger with a sharpened pencil… my dad.

He’s been a baseball fan since he first heard Red Barber’s voice from Ebbets Field on a small Silvertone radio. He’s the greatest fan—and the greatest man—I’ve ever met. He’s partial to the Dodgers, tolerates the Braves, and appreciates hustle, loyalty, and team spirit no matter what color hat the athlete wears.

As I sat with him the other night watching the Braves stretch one out against Seattle, I began to wonder what his favorite season of America’s Favorite Pastime was. I guess I could’ve asked, but I didn’t want to disturb my lifelong tradition of sitting beside him as he analyzed the situation on the field. He’s so much more insightful than the best color commentators.

His favorite season could have been 1948. Western Union didn’t visit Route 2 in Leighton, Alabama, very often back then. When the uniformed deliveryman arrived at the Whitlock homestead, cotton farmers and schoolchildren alike were curious about why William Whitlock was getting a telegram. Death in the family? Draft notice? No. Something far more surprising. The Boston Red Sox wanted him to try out. He left home an eighteen-year-old, right-handed, fastballer with potential. He returned a few days later from Rickwood Field knowing that the “Show” wasn’t for him.

I’m sure it wasn’t 1951. I mean, every red-blooded Dodger fan still cringes when TV retrospectives show the segment where Russ Hodges screams, “The Giants win the pennant!” It was the worst slide in baseball history. My dad was 21 and engaged that year. And then another telegram came. It was his draft notice.

Maybe it was 1953 when he started the first baseball team at Fort McPherson in Georgia. The Korean War was raging 13 time zones away and he must have brought some sanity to a difficult time. That winter, the Army saw something in my dad and shipped him and his newlywed wife from Atlanta to Kansas for officer training. On the frozen plain, he learned how to drink coffee in subzero weather, learned how to lead, and longed for the baseball diamond.

One of the best candidates is 1955, a golden year. The “Subway Series” between Brooklyn and the Yankees lasted until game seven, but the Bums finally beat their cross-town rival. He listened and cheered from the States, having never been deployed. After being honorably discharged, he traded his fatigues for a high school coach’s whistle. (Between football and basketball, he would eventually end his career on the high school level with a record of 201-89.)

The year they tore down Ebbets was probably one of the worst. In 1958, the Dodgers stopped dodging trolleys and started dodging earthquakes at Chavez Ravine. My dad spent the next few years coaching in north Alabama, Dallas, and eventually metro Atlanta. He coached the DeKalb Community College Patriots to NJCAA state and regional titles with an overall record of 172-85. Everybody he knows still calls him coach.

I wonder sometimes if his favorite season was 1974 when The Hammer chased The Babe. My grandparents came to town the week he hit 715. We were all going to go, but they arrived too late to go to the stadium. We had managed to be there for number 700, though. I’ll never forget sitting in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. Those uncomfortable wooden seats teemed with more than 51,000 baseball fans and history seekers alike. Every time No. 44 walked from the dugout to the batter’s box, the crowd would stand and roar. I couldn’t see a thing, even when my dad helped me stand on the seat. I may not have seen the swing, but I felt the ocean of history wash over me and heard the crack that meant the worst team in baseball was worth something. We were all Braves fans in 1973 and 1974. Aaron didn’t become immortal that night, but my dad did for taking me there. Why did they have to trade Hank the next year?

The next season, when we sat along the first base side, I was old enough to write my name. We sat about 30 rows back, and Dad taught me how to keep score… with a sharpened pencil. That season was one of my favorites. Is it one of Dad’s? We went to see the Braves host the Dodgers, but every time, we’d leave before the bottom of the eighth inning because the basement dwellers seemed to always pull it out against LA.

Then there was the year he sat along the first base side of a Little League field and watched me catch a fly ball with my face. Probably not it.

In 1976, we traveled west to California because the rest of the country supposedly would be vacationing in our nation’s Capitol for the Bicentennial. I still think everybody had the same idea as my dad and joined us in the desert near the London Bridge. The highlight of that trip was my dad’s first and last home game at Dodger Stadium. We left in the top of the ninth. The Dodgers didn’t win that night, but my Dad and I made a lifelong memory eating Dodger Dogs and keeping score along first base. Steve Garvey, my favorite player, was live and in person about 100 yards away.

The World Series of 1981 was sweet, but when the Boys in Blue won again in 1988, it was sweeter. My dad still talks about Orel Hersheiser hitting his knees in thanksgiving and the way Kirk Gibson hobbled around the bases, pumping his arm, after a pinch-hit home run to cinch it. These pictures are burned in our memories.

We all moved away from Atlanta in 1991. I moved to Colorado Springs but never made it north to see the Rockies. My dad and mom moved back to Alabama. It figures that the Braves would start winning after we left. Oh, to have made it back to the first base stands in 1995 when Atlanta won the Series!

Last year had great promise. But the Dodgers faded, and Atlanta lost in the division series. My dad’s rotisserie baseball club, “The Up and Comers,” sat on top in our league until the last day of the season. Dad lost by one home run! The “Orange Crush” tied my dad in this category, giving them the half-point they needed to pull in front of my dad. Yes, statistics are the true currency of baseball.

Maybe it can be this season. The Dodgers are tied three games behind San Francisco in the West. His “Up and Comers” are in 2nd… behind my team. I’d gladly trade all my aces to him for the injured players on his roster if it meant he’d win. But he won’t have it. It wouldn’t be fair and honest.

But my dad’s favorite season can’t be 2004.

You see, Dad can’t echo the immortal words of Brooklyn fans from the fifties, “Wait till next year.” This is probably my father’s last baseball season. With every passing minute, his body is robbed of oxygen. Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis is a cruel thief—a terminal disease with no known cause that scars the lungs until the patient suffocates.

He watches baseball now, not from the first base side, but from a brown leatherette recliner. The stereophonic roar of the crowd is only tempered by the erratic and constant huffing and puffing of a 73-year-old man with Pulmonary Fibrosis. A clear tube wraps around his ears where an LA cap should be and trails along the ground to an oxygen pump in another room. He rolls his electric wheelchair to the computer every morning to check his fantasy baseball stats. He watches the games every night and pulls for the Dodgers, the rookies, and the gentlemen of the game.

Players, please honor this veteran fan of the game. Don’t be afraid to climb the center field wall to steal a home run. The scabs will heal, so go ahead and dive for that screaming ground ball and turn that double play. When you’re on the mound, and the catcher signals No. 1, breathe deep. You’ve got enough for one more fastball for my dad. And don’t meander to first base after ball four. Drop your bat and sprint down the line. Show a little hustle. Be a gentleman.

Don’t be surprised if the Dodgers make up for their demise of 1951 this year. I’m praying harder than a rookie in the batter’s box for the first time.

So, the next time you step up to the plate, tip your hat to the first base stands. Somewhere, about 30 rows back, there might be a father—a gentleman—teaching his son how to keep score with a sharpened pencil. For them, this is the best season ever.

Field of Dreams will endure as one of the greatest baseball movies of all time. James Earl Jones delivers one of his most iconic performances. The lines from the movie will echo in dugouts and around dinner tables for generations. But at the heart of the movie lies the story of an estranged father and son.

Movie makers often compress decades of information into an exposition scene so that they can get all the history out of the way of the story that’s about to unfold. Field of Dreams does so when it presents the life story of Ray and Annie Kinsella through a slide show with a Kevin Costner voiceover. Tucked inside this outstanding two-minute and five-second monologue is this telling line:

Baseball evolved into the sword that cut the knot of their father/child relationship. The refrain of this problem comes back again and again to set up the glorious three-hankie final scene. Baseball also brings together Ray’s relationship with his elementary-aged daughter, Karin. Ray’s eyes light up as he shares stories and stats, defines terminology, and introduces his daughter to the sport. Watch how often she is the one moving the movie forward. She rides on the tractor with Ray as he plows under his corn like a horse’s ass. She interrupts a budget conversation with the news that there’s a man out there on his lawn. She pulls Ray from the lunch with the in-laws. The “People will Come” speech is not James Earl Jones’. No, it is Karin’s. Jones just continues it. And of course, Karin’s choking episode opens the eyes of ole Uncle Mark who wants to foreclose on the farm with his ruthless partners.

Yes, baseball drove Ray and his father, John, apart as much as it brought Ray and his daughter, Karin, together. Take for instance the other exposition dump in the movie. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham is asleep in the back of the VW Bus while Ray and Terrance Mann talk about baseball between the World Wars. Terrance pushes Ray to talk more about his dad. This scene plays out:

Have you ever heard someone talk about “The Field of Dreams Myth”? In business parlance, if a company founder or solopreneur thinks, “If I build it, customers will come,” they’ve bought into the myth. In the same way, I think we estranged parents have a “Field of Dreams Myth” about our children. We watch the relationship between Ray and Karin and nostalgia causes goosebumps to spring up on our arms and our tear ducts to shift into overdrive. We comment to ourselves, “I was like that. I was involved. I was spirited, and playful, and invited my children into my life.”

When Ray says, “So when I was fourteen, I started to refuse. Can you believe that? An American boy refusing to have a catch with his father?” we mumble in reply.

“You see? Those petty arguments during adolescence. Of course. My son was trying to grow wings. I was worried about missing him when he left. I wanted to squeeze every lesson I possibly could into those final few years, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

Next, we hear Ray say, “We had a big fight, I packed my things, said something awful, and left. After a while I wanted to come home, but I didn’t know how. I made it back for the funeral“ (emphasis mine).

The “Field of Dreams Myth” is now firing off rockets in our souls. “You see! There’s regret! There’s sorrow! Oh, he just didn’t know how. Maybe I should reach out right now. I don’t want my son to live out my greatest nightmare: only making it back for the funeral.”

One story told by some of America’s greatest actors, scored by James Horner (Titanic, Brave Heart, Apollo XIII), wrapped up in what used to be America’s greatest pastime does not equal a formula for reconciliation from estrangement.

So, can we learn anything about our children, our pain, or life in general from the movie?

Perhaps. Allow me to spell out three observations I made during my most recent celluloid (or I guess I should say digital) trip to Iowa.

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1. Annie is the Key

Annie, played by Amy Madigan, has never met John, her father-in-law. He’s been dead for many years. Her story doesn’t apply to all or ours. She wasn’t hurt by and never argued with John. She could tell her husband to forget about his dad, rehearse all of the pain Ray shared with her (which if not everything would’ve triggered Ray to remember the rest), and talk about the future or moving on. Instead, she encourages the dream and shares it with her husband.

If our estranged children are married, we cannot escape the role our children’s spouses play in reconciliation. And here’s the awful part: we can’t change the spouse’s opinion one iota. Some may claim they “know” the spouse is the one who pulled the beloved stranger away. Let us check ourselves if we believe that. Others among us may say, “I had a good relationship with him/her early in the relationship, I should give him/her a call to try and end this silliness.” Friends, may we stop before we pick up the phone and pose our thumbs over the buttons.

In the same way that Annie turns the field lights on so Ray and John can continue their game of catch, your beloved stranger’s spouse may be the one to turn the light on. Or it may just be that he/she doesn’t turn it off. Pray for understanding, wisdom, and empathy for yourself. And pray for him/her, too, because he/she is carrying a burden as well.

2. Terrance Mann Called His Father

While in Chisholm, Minnesota, Ray picks up a copy of the newspaper and reads a story reporting that Terrance Mann is considered missing. Mann’s father had notified police after he couldn’t reach his son on the phone. In one of the biggest laugh lines, Ray leaves the motel room to give Mann some privacy, Terry picks up the phone and then freezes. He says to the room, “What do I tell him?”

Ray was driven apart from his dad by several factors including continued grief from the loss of his mother, “The Sixties,” arguments, rugged insistence on baseball leading to burnout, and reading The Boat Rocker by Terrance Mann. We don’t know anything else. The movie doesn’t tell us. In the same way that you haven’t disclosed every moment of every encounter with your children, your beloved stranger has probably not disclosed every encounter with others or especially you. Besides, none of us can know which moments are the defining ones.

Mann is still connected to (or possibly reconnected to; we don’t know) his father. So, one of the architects of “The Sixties” and the author of Ray’s wedge is not estranged from his father. Sure, it’s a “Greatest Generation” dad and a “Silent Generation” son in the Manns’ case as opposed to a “Silent Generation” father and a “Boomer” son in the case of the Kinsellas. But it is much deeper than that. We don’t know what kept the Manns together. Nor do we know exactly what keeps some families from estrangement. Why do we compare? Why do we say, “Well, look at them? My child and their child practically grew up together. How many movies and sleepovers and birthday parties and school basketball games did we all attend together? What did they do that I didn’t?” Every parent/child story is as different as every pitcher’s curve ball. So, just rest in the fact that God knows your exact situation and is working it out according to His will and His timing.]

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3. John and Ray Meet Again Surrounded by Understanding

Close your eyes and think for just a moment about where John and Ray are emotionally when they shake hands. Okay, you can open them again. John, dead for many years, has come back to a magical place where he is playing baseball with some of the greatest athletes in the history of the sport. A minor league catcher who never got called up, I wonder if he’s seeing the gap between his skill set and that of the other players. He’s had decades, in the universe of the movie, to reflect on his life. He appears grateful. Grateful for the field to return to, grateful for the chance to play, and grateful to meet Annie and Karin. He expresses his gratitude through the handshake.

Ray has been on an odd journey for longer than a year. He destroys his crop, he builds a field no one understands, he endures months with no movement, his financial world is upside down dangling above the shredder, he was faced with whether or not to give it all up to end the pain, his daughter could’ve died, and in that very moment, he feels like he did it all for nothing because he can’t go with the players into the corn. He shakes his father’s hand amid pain and uncertainty.

You’re ahead of me, aren’t you? You’re already saying, “Exactly! So how do I get to this level of understanding with my son/daughter?”

Where Do Estranged Parents Go from Here?

Who is the driving force behind Ray and John’s story? We know better than to say, “The Universe.” We know it is God Almighty. In a series of beautiful and memorable moments made for Hollywood, director Phil Alden Robinson (Sneakers, The Sum of All Fears) sews up this tale in exactly 100 minutes.

God, the author and perfecter of our stories, is certainly taking longer than 100 minutes with your story and mine. But let us take heart, dear friend. Allow me to close with words from another amazing storyteller, Frank Peretti:

Dads, how can I pray for you this Father’s Day week? Leave a comment or DM me.

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Preview of Friday’s Musings

I’ll tell some of my own dad’s backstory...

My dad’s favorite baseball season could have been 1948. Western Union didn’t visit Route 2 in Leighton, Alabama, very often back then. When the uniformed deliveryman arrived at the Whitlock homestead, cotton farmers and schoolchildren alike were curious about why William was getting a telegram. Death in the family? Draft notice? No. Something far more surprising. The Boston Red Sox wanted him to try out.

And I’ll offer a prayer for Fathers that we can all pray together.

Shame tackles and trips estranged parents from every direction. Sometimes, it ducks in and out of the shadows, whispers poison, sours our food, and steals our favorite candy. Other times, it whispers tiny lie after tiny lie until we lose track of the truth. Shame always waits for the wrong moment to burst onto the scene and change the entire plot. If that wasn’t scary enough, three different kinds of shame divebomb us like laser-guided missiles headed straight for our souls: toxic shame, godly shame, and cultural shame.

Cultural Shame

Cultural shame drags like a strip of toilet paper stuck to our shoes at a black-tie event. Cultural shame bleeds through our social media feeds whenever someone offers a hot take on a favorite restaurant or criticizes our must-watch TV shows. Our cultural shame whines, “Something is wrong with me because the things I am passionate about are hated by others. That means, I’m not accepted.” Related to estrangement, every time we are asked about our children, we see the mix of pity and fear in the eyes of the askers, as if they will catch the disease if they stand too close to us.

But we believe what they believe anyway.

Toxic Shame

Toxic shame transforms, when we least expect it, from a ladybug into a giant alien witch that seeks to remove our hearts and lungs with one flick of her wand. Related to estrangement, all of us blew it at some level with our children because we are human. Some among us perpetrated lasting harm against our beloved strangers. Our journey toward reconciliation will require us to—in humility—measure it, weigh it, and determine the sheer tonnage of it. When we call ourselves names, beat ourselves up, run away, freeze, or imagine the George Bailey of it all, toxic shame screams, “You are worthless, broken, and busted. You’re not worth the air you breathe.” And that’s before shame starts cussing. Yes, toxic shame sounds like the voice and vocabulary of the enemy of our souls.

But we beat ourselves up anyway.

Godly Shame

Godly shame is not an oxymoron. Call it conviction, because that is what it is. We feel it when a server gives us too much change and we, for a nanosecond, imagine how we’d spend it until the Holy Spirit clears His throat. He instructs with an even tone, “Don’t do that. Remember who God created you to be.” We know we’re not perfect. We know we made mistakes. We believe those mistakes drove us to depend upon God Almighty for the care and keeping of our children. We acknowledged our stewardship of His children.

We should feel the weight of this conviction.

In our daily lives, we often can’t tell which shame is making our stomachs do more flips than Simone Biles and Mary Lou Retton combined. And that right there, friends, is what makes being an estranged parent so difficult. All three types of shame spoon us in bed, ride shotgun on our morning commute, and hand us our soap in the shower. We must learn to diagnose and process our shame. We will not be prepared for a text exchange with our beloved strangers—let alone reconciliation—without being able to distinguish among the types of shame and respond well. Too many of us, for example, may confuse toxic shame with godly shame. That’s too easy because they may be communicating the same message in different ways. We can’t distinguish between the conviction of the Holy Spirit and the condemnation of our internal voices and the enemy. So, we may dismiss the reality and severity of what happened between our beloved strangers and us. Can we stop and taste our rotten teeth?

At the same time, our doom scrolls continue marching. We try to dismiss cultural shame and thus numb our souls, putting us at risk of not feeling shame of any kind. We put our souls at risk of being calloused or seared to all kinds of shame. We’ll never be whole if we do.

In reality, the three voices of shame may be singing in dissonance to wake us up so that we can see ourselves correctly, begin or continue to seek forgiveness from God Himself, and prepare ourselves to make amends with our beloved children in His timing and grace.

Do you feel unsettled and like the melody of this devotional hasn’t resolved? Exactly.

Read: 2 Corinthians 7. Try to identify all three kinds of shame in Paul’s writing. Next, look back into the previous chapters at the “promises” mentioned in verse 1. Then, dive deep into verses 9–11.

Pray: Thank God for shame. Thank Him for giving you a Geiger counter for sin. Then ask God to turn up your sensitivity so that you can be more aware and seek repair with others more quickly.

Write: Remain quiet for five minutes. Set a timer if you need to. Then write down any shame you feel, any shame at all. Come back at a later time, perhaps tomorrow, and work with God to classify your shame into the three categories.

Listen: “He Covers Me” by Steve Camp.

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Records from the 15th through 19th centuries tell stories of church leaders in Europe and even America who forced those caught in sin to dress all in white and walk through town carrying a lit candle. The townspeople would mock and taunt the person for his or her sin.

This medieval practice of carrying a penitential candle lost the plot.

You and I carry the weight of the pain and hurt we caused, but it weighs infinitely more than a candle. Perhaps the penitent person wore white to show remorse and to symbolize forgiveness. But what about the candle? What did it signify to them? As the practice continued from century to century, the powers that be replaced the candle with a white rod. The reasons are lost to time.

For us, let the candle we carry in our grief and shame, even amid the comments and faces of others, shine as a symbol of hope.

Not since David Ogden Stiers invited us to meet the Beast have I enjoyed an opening movie monologue more than Alfred Molina’s disdain for third graders as Marcellus in the opening seconds of Remarkably Bright Creatures. Molina provided his voiceover without credit in this “remarkable” movie streaming on Netflix.

The film is based on Shelby Van Pelt’s debut novel of the same name. It spent more than a hundred weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, but somehow I missed it. The story glides along the coast of Washington State with the ease of an early Sunday morning paddleboarder. Nestled in the middle of town rests a small aquarium where we meet Tova, Cameron, and of course, Marcellus.

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Sally Field plays Tova Sullivan, a seventy-year-old widow who lost her son to a tragic accident decades ago and her husband to illness in their retirement years. She works as the aquarium’s night janitor, scraping gum from the floor and removing finger- and tongue-prints from the windows of the displays.

In her solitude, she processes her feelings and the events of her days out loud with Marcellus, the aquarium’s star attraction, an aging giant Pacific octopus. His wise and self-important observations of humanity bring as many thoughtful nods as his humor brings laughs. He was injured by a wolf eel, or else a fisherman never would have snagged him and sentenced him to his glass prison.

Cameron, played by Lewis Pullman, rounds out our trio of wounded souls. He rumbles into town in the van his mother died in, carrying a ring that belonged to his unknown biological father and a chip on his shoulder almost as big as the hole in his heart.

I couldn’t help but watch this beautifully shot and delightfully written movie without seeing myself in its characters. Of course, that’s the power of a good story—we find ourselves in its pages or its frames. The movie is a study in grief—where it comes from, how it hangs on, where it surprises us, and what is required to keep living despite it. Grief is the cord that binds them all together, tighter than the extension cord Marcellus found himself wrapped in. For estranged parents, the film offers a chance to look at three aspects of our particular grief.

In one of the earliest lines in the movie, Marcellus observes about Tova, “We both dream of the bottom of the sea and what we lost there.”

Tova lost her son prematurely and is still walking through grief while also mourning the loss of her husband. She has not entered her son’s room in thirty years. She has preserved it exactly as it was. She can’t go in there. And bristles when others do. We recognize the impulse, don’t we? We are sometimes stuck in our grief, stuck remembering our children as they were when we were last connected. That is easy to do, because those are the photographs we see on our phones, our walls, or in the yellowing albums on our shelves. But time has passed. Which has changed more? Hairstyles and clothing choices, or the ways our estranged children—our beloved strangers—have grown, learned, and adapted to their worlds without us present? By the end of the film, Tova enters the room. That gives us hope that we, too, may one day be ready to move forward in our grief rather than preserve it like a room no one is allowed to enter.

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Cameron never knew his father's identity and barely knew his mother. When his mother died, he found the truth among her things. Pullman adroitly performs anger, disappointment, loss, longing, hope, and curiosity at once with the skill of a guitar virtuoso, which he is not. He wants to say things he has never been allowed to. He wants to receive something he feels he is owed. For us, the speck-and-plank principle is worth sitting with here: what might our beloved strangers need to say to us? And if we know—or even suspect—what those words might be, are we prepared to respond? Not defensively, but in a loving way that gives them the gift they need?

Marcellus grieves the loss of his rightful home. He dreams about the cave at the bottom of the sea, where he could look out and see the marvels of creation, experience God’s provision, and know the proper life and death of an octopus. Estrangement has disrupted our lives in a similar way. It changed not only the great days on the calendar, like birthdays and Christmas, but every ordinary day, every interaction with someone who innocently asks about our children, and every moment we wonder what others are saying about our parenting when we are not around. We are not in our natural habitat. We, like Marcellus, feel hopeless about getting back there. And like him, we sometimes make foolish decisions to force the issue.

The first time I watched the movie, I missed a key scene. Tova is trying to track down information about the year her son died, and wonders if one of her friends, one of the “Knit-Wits,” has the answer. I saw this scene as part of the rising action, but missed the wisdom of her friend. Tova apologizes for the umpteenth time and tries to leave Mary Ann (played by Kathy Baker who always seems to get great lines) alone. Mary Ann says,

Our lives didn’t end when our children went “no contact.” Yes, they changed. Yes, it hurts. Yes, in some ways, we feel frozen in time. But the days move on. We count them like Marcellus counted every day in the tank.* And we, too, must not stop the business of living. We must walk, even with a limp, with our friends, so we can keep hope alive. Maybe, if we open our hearts and our stories to others, Marcellus might call us remarkably bright creatures, too.

What aspects of grief do you struggle with the most? Share your story in the comments.

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*I wrote about how we count days in a devotional you can read here.

What friends had to say about Remarkably Bright Creatures

Kelly said, “ It is refreshing to see real acting and emotion carrying the film instead of crime and violence. The only thing I had an issue with was in some scenes the octopus was clearly fake. Sally Field was spectacular.”

Christina: “ It was not until the very end that I understood the entire plot; they hid it well. This, to me, makes following a full story so exciting. The anticipation. The not knowing where we are heading. Without giving anything away, because people do need to see this for themselves, this is a heart-warming story.”

Gary: “Great imagination, great storytelling, and wonderful ending.”

Cindy exclaimed, “My new feel-good movie!”

Amy wrote, “What I loved? So close to the book. And also Alfred Molina’s narration.”

Sit with This

I screwed up this week. I made a mistake that I’ve made before, many times over the years. Telling you the details of the mistake won’t help anything in this moment because I’m willing to bet you, too, have at least one mistake you can’t seem to escape. You have yours. I have mine.

My mistake hurt those I love the most. And I hear the echoes of how the same mistake hurt my children who have gone “no contact.” I wrote in my journal a few days ago, “I wish my estranged children could see the changes I’ve made and the growth I’ve undergone these last twelve years. I wish they could see me with a different lens.”

But here I am, screwing up again.

So, maybe they are more right than I am.

Nevertheless, I will seek to make amends to those I’ve hurt and start all over again. One second, one minute, one hour, and one day at a time.

I’m also reminded in this moment that God’s forgiveness and the forgiveness of His beautiful creation (human beings) are very different from each other. So I will seek to be patient, and continue to repent and make amends, while human forgiveness takes as long as it must.

Make no, um, mistake. I am wrong. Now I’ve got more work to do.

How about you?

When did the years turn to seasons like pre-school, tween, and adolescence? When did seasons turn to generations marked by the crooked letters at the end of the alphabet?

We remember so many days. The memories are palpable, just below the surface, still in color, though fading. The sound is still sharp in our minds with static just around the edges. If we hold our breath, perhaps we can be transported back to the kitchen with the peeling linoleum to marvel at a giggle that wouldn’t stop.

We also remember that day. The day the silence began. The day the distance began to grow into a tunnel so dark it seemed to eat light. The day they became beloved strangers. We started counting anew. Days turned into weeks. Then months. When we passed the one-year mark, we ached in disbelief.

Moses seems to have counted days, too. He must have counted often—sheep, plagues, commandments, years in the wilderness. In Psalm 90, the oldest Psalm and the only one we know he wrote, he says,

Carefully. How do we number our days carefully?

We are so used to counting our days in sadness, despair, grief, anger, and longing. Is that numbering days with care?

The Hebrew word for “number” is pronounced “maw-nah” and carries more weight than an eight-year-old, konked-out by vacation, carried upstairs from the car to bed. It means to appoint, to allot, to enroll. The word carries formality and intention. Moses is not telling us to count on our fingers or carry the three in a napkin equation using math techniques we wish schools still taught.

Moses is telling us to look at today on purpose. Today is not another stone added to our backpack of woe. It is an invitation to remember, to pray for God’s will and blessing in their lives, and to depend on His grace. And it is an invitation to hope again.

This appointing and allotting of days is for a greater purpose: “that we may develop wisdom in our hearts.” Imagine if wisdom replaced the holes torn through our hearts. Yes, we will ache, mourn, and long until they return to our arms or the end of the days God has appointed for our lives comes. But what a comfort wisdom can and will be.

Moses did not ask God to teach us to number our weeks, our years, or our decades. He asked for days. Perhaps he already had a heart of wisdom.

So let us appoint today “carefully.” And do it again tomorrow.

Would You Use a Candle as an Alarm Clock?

Since the Middle Ages, candles have been used to mark the passage of time. As the candle alarm clock burns, the nails fall into the metal basin and make a loud clatter. And this handy invention even comes with a built-in snooze feature. Don’t want to get up? Just let it burn down to the next nail.

Monks across Europe used them to mark the length of their prayers or serve as reminders for the next activity of the day. The candle clock is, in a real sense, a tool used in the predecessor to our understanding of a quiet time.

Stay for Awhile

• Read: Psalm 90. Make a note of every reference to measurements of time. Moses is both poetic and purposeful.

• Pray: At what time each day do you feel loss the most? Set an alarm for that time today. When it goes off, ask God to help you “maw-nah” your minutes, hours, and days of grief.

• Write: Write a journal entry telling the story of a memorable day with your estranged child. Think through all five senses—what did you see, smell, touch, feel, and hear that day?

Press Play—“Takin’ My Time”

Trusting our children, especially our estranged children, to a Sovereign God often feels like a full-time career. We ping-pong between crippling worry of the unknown and steel-jawed trust that God is at work.

This song settles us into a gentle groove dug by the memorable riff of the acoustic guitar and the resonance of a Wurlitzer electric piano. And then the thoughtful lyrics move us to rest in the arms of the Creator of Time. Listen for the plays on words about how much our concerns weigh, what we do with time versus what God does with it, and the character qualities of God as they relate to time.

Most songs about time pulse with the ticking of a clock or drive forward like the sun sprinting across the sky. Instead, “Takin’ My Time” is a paradox: the sometimes crushing anxiety we carry nestled in the gentle back and forth motion of a rocking chair on a wide porch at sunset, accented by a gentle breeze. The song doesn’t discount how we feel; it just models how we should act and move when we feel. The song recalibrates our worries about tomorrow and allows us to let tomorrow worry about itself (Matthew 6).

Musically, “Takin’ My Time” is a feast featuring some of our greatest contemporary musicians—Shane Keister on keyboards, Scott Denté on acoustic guitar, Gordon Kennedy and Jerry McPherson on electric, and Tommy Sims on bass. For this track, Christine Denté provides the lead vocal.

The song fades, leaving us with the impression that the core idea—God takes care of time—will continue on and on.

“Takin’ My Time,” written by Christine Denté and Charlie Peacock. © 1994 Sparrow Song / Andi Beat Goes On Music (BMI). All rights reserved.

Ink Stains

I enjoy my morning walks. I find them divided into three parts these days, no matter the length of the walk: the clearing, the thinking, and the working. When I wake up, my mind is already whirring. I need almost two miles to quiet my own concerns and fears. I try to listen to the Bible, but most mornings I’m just checking the box of “reading through the Bible in a year.” I don’t hear much. My thoughts are too loud. I just trust that God is not letting His word return void.

When my mind is finally quiet, I can think. About this time every morning, I cross paths with Rob, a neighbor, who walks with the determination equal to the cut and definition of his musculature.

I continue to argue with myself about which is the number one priority for the day and steel myself for the schedule ahead. If you looked at the mile splits on my iPhone, you’d see that this is the fastest mile time of the morning.

By this point, the sun is finally peaking over the ridge of pines to the east of us. If I time it just right, the sun illumines the lake. Tears flood my eyes some mornings when the ducks choose this moment to paddle through the orange glow and scatter the reds and purples. I’m almost home. That’s when I pull one of the many ideas for devotionals and prayers from the list I keep in Evernote. I turn on my voice recorder and literally talk to God about the idea up the hill and around the curve.

When this book is done, I will have to send “thank you” notes to Dan Sheridan at Brooks Running, John Ternus at Apple, and Rob for making these morning walks so productive.

Current Devotional Count: 17 out of 100