Today, my 10-year-old son is heading out on a big adventure: a road trip to Michigan to see the Savannah Bananas with a family friend and her child. It should be exciting, right? A fun baseball game, goofy antics, memories to last a lifetime. And it is. But if I’m being completely honest, there’s a knot in my stomach that hasn’t loosened since we gave the green light.
You see, I’ve known this family friend since high school. She's trustworthy, responsible, and a great mom. If I had to choose anyone outside our family to take my son on a trip, she’d be near the top of the list. This isn't about trust in her or even her kid. It’s about something deeper. Something harder to explain.
It’s about the feeling of powerlessness.
When you're a dad, especially one grounded in blue-collar values, you're used to being the fixer. If a tire goes flat, I’m there. Oil needs changing, I’m under the hood. If my kid forgets his glove, I’m the guy turning the car around. That’s the rhythm of fatherhood for many of us—hands-on, boots-on-the-ground, always close enough to help.
But when your kid crosses state lines without you, none of that’s in reach. God forbid there’s a flat tire or even just a missed exit—I can't help. I can't make it better. I'm not there.
And that, my friends, is a hard pill to swallow.
It’s not about being overprotective. It’s about being present. It’s about being available. It’s about the quiet comfort of knowing you’re just down the road if anything goes sideways. When that’s taken away, it’s not panic that sets in—it’s discomfort. A low hum of anxiety wrapped in the armor of love.
But here’s where faith comes in.
My favorite Bible quote that I’ve used a thousand times to seek peace comes to mind:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
I’m realizing that this moment isn’t just about my son’s adventure. It’s about my own growth as a father. It's about submitting to the truth that I’m not always supposed to be in control. That sometimes, trusting God means stepping back, even when it hurts a little.
That’s a tough ask for someone like me. I am grounded in the thought that control equals safety and preparation equals love. But maybe, just maybe, releasing control is a different kind of love. A deeper one. One that says, “I trust God more than I trust my own instincts.”
I can rub him down with sunscreen and I can remind him to wear his seat belt. I can offer emergency contact info and pack extra snacks. But I cannot sit in the backseat. I cannot turn the wheel. I cannot call the shots. And in this case, that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Because this is his adventure. His chance to grow. His memory in the making.
I’ll be here—probably checking my phone too often, praying more than usual, and waiting to hear all about the goofy dances and banana-themed chaos. I’ll be here in the background, cheering him on from a few hundred miles away.
And when he comes back with a sunburned nose, a new hat, and a heart full of stories, I’ll thank God not just for keeping him safe—but for reminding me that parenting isn’t about control—it’s about stewardship.
That’s a word we don’t use often enough. Stewardship. It’s the idea that we’re entrusted with our kids, not entitled to them. That we guide, not grip. That we prepare them for the road—not shield them from it.
And I’ll admit—it’s easier to write about than live out.
But I believe this is what God wants from us. He wants us to trust Him with our children just like He trusted us enough to raise them.
Deuteronomy 31:6 reminds me:
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified... for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.”
That’s the peace I’m clinging to. Not that I can handle everything—but that He already has.
So, as I wave goodbye, I’m learning to say a different kind of prayer. Not “Lord, keep him close to me,” but “Lord, keep him close to You.”
And that, I believe, is the heart of a faithful father. One who trusts in the God who holds our children even tighter than we ever could.
You see, I’ve known this family friend since high school. She's trustworthy, responsible, and a great mom. If I had to choose anyone outside our family to take my son on a trip, she’d be near the top of the list. This isn't about trust in her or even her kid. It’s about something deeper. Something harder to explain.
It’s about the feeling of powerlessness.
When you're a dad, especially one grounded in blue-collar values, you're used to being the fixer. If a tire goes flat, I’m there. Oil needs changing, I’m under the hood. If my kid forgets his glove, I’m the guy turning the car around. That’s the rhythm of fatherhood for many of us—hands-on, boots-on-the-ground, always close enough to help.
But when your kid crosses state lines without you, none of that’s in reach. God forbid there’s a flat tire or even just a missed exit—I can't help. I can't make it better. I'm not there.
And that, my friends, is a hard pill to swallow.
It’s not about being overprotective. It’s about being present. It’s about being available. It’s about the quiet comfort of knowing you’re just down the road if anything goes sideways. When that’s taken away, it’s not panic that sets in—it’s discomfort. A low hum of anxiety wrapped in the armor of love.
But here’s where faith comes in.
My favorite Bible quote that I’ve used a thousand times to seek peace comes to mind:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
I’m realizing that this moment isn’t just about my son’s adventure. It’s about my own growth as a father. It's about submitting to the truth that I’m not always supposed to be in control. That sometimes, trusting God means stepping back, even when it hurts a little.
That’s a tough ask for someone like me. I am grounded in the thought that control equals safety and preparation equals love. But maybe, just maybe, releasing control is a different kind of love. A deeper one. One that says, “I trust God more than I trust my own instincts.”
I can rub him down with sunscreen and I can remind him to wear his seat belt. I can offer emergency contact info and pack extra snacks. But I cannot sit in the backseat. I cannot turn the wheel. I cannot call the shots. And in this case, that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Because this is his adventure. His chance to grow. His memory in the making.
I’ll be here—probably checking my phone too often, praying more than usual, and waiting to hear all about the goofy dances and banana-themed chaos. I’ll be here in the background, cheering him on from a few hundred miles away.
And when he comes back with a sunburned nose, a new hat, and a heart full of stories, I’ll thank God not just for keeping him safe—but for reminding me that parenting isn’t about control—it’s about stewardship.
That’s a word we don’t use often enough. Stewardship. It’s the idea that we’re entrusted with our kids, not entitled to them. That we guide, not grip. That we prepare them for the road—not shield them from it.
And I’ll admit—it’s easier to write about than live out.
But I believe this is what God wants from us. He wants us to trust Him with our children just like He trusted us enough to raise them.
Deuteronomy 31:6 reminds me:
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified... for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.”
That’s the peace I’m clinging to. Not that I can handle everything—but that He already has.
So, as I wave goodbye, I’m learning to say a different kind of prayer. Not “Lord, keep him close to me,” but “Lord, keep him close to You.”
And that, I believe, is the heart of a faithful father. One who trusts in the God who holds our children even tighter than we ever could.
Comments
Post a Comment